GOTREK AND FELIX
MARRIAGE OF MOMENT
Josh Reynolds
Felix Jaeger blinked blearily as the grey light drizzled through the rips in the canvas roof of the wagon. He closed one eye and opened another, trying to stop his immediate surroundings from shuddering. When that failed to achieve the desired equilibrium, he slowly rotated his head, painfully conscious of the alcohol-induced hammers that were ringing down on the inside of his skull.
He was sprawled in the back of a wagon and his lanky frame was crammed amongst bags of corn meal, oats and stoppered casks of beer. His back ached abominably, and he realised that he was lying across his sword. Dried sausages dangled from the ribs of wood that held the canvas up, and a leg of salted pork bumped against his aching skull none too gently when he attempted to sit up. He sank back down, cursing virulently, and Karaghul’s ornate hilt stabbed him between the shoulder blades, eliciting further curses.
‘Are you awake then, manling?’ Gotrek Gurnisson inquired in a raspy growl. Felix rolled carefully onto his belly and tried to push himself upright, after sitting up proved to be too unpleasant a task. He looked around for the Slayer, and was rewarded by the sight of Gotrek’s scarred features peering back at him from the front of the wagon. The dwarf shoved the canvas flap aside, allowing a coil of frosty mountain air into the back of the wagon, along with the thick animal odour of the mules that were pulling it. His tattooed pate was scraped free of hair, save for a massive crest that had been dyed orange and stiffened with pig grease. His thick, braided beard had been dyed the same colour, and more tattoos covered his heavily muscled frame. Compared to his imposing companion, Felix resembled an overlarge youth, being slim-muscled and lanky, with the build of a trained swordsman.
Felix glared at the Slayer and then fell onto his stomach, hands over his eyes. ‘Yes, though I wish I weren’t,’ he moaned. ‘Where are we?’ He could recall the previous night only dimly. They had been in Solberg, a one-horse town in the Border Princes, far too close to the Badlands for Felix’s liking. Solberg wasn’t big, as far as towns went, even towns in the Princes, but it had had a tavern, which had been enough for Gotrek.
‘A wagon,’ Gotrek said. The Slayer gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘That should be obvious, even to you, manling.’ Felix recalled that the Slayer had put away a vat of the vile brew that the tavern-keeper had claimed was a local vintage, but, as usual, he seemed none the worse for wear. Felix, on the other hand, felt as if his guts were being eaten away from the inside out.
‘Yes, thank you. Where is the wagon going?’ Felix grunted. The wagon bounced as its wheels went over a rut, and Felix’s stomach lurched. He clapped a hand over his mouth and made a sound like a clogged pipe. Gotrek chuckled nastily.
‘We’re in the mountains,’ he said, knuckling his eyepatch absently. ‘There’s a wedding to attend, after all.’
‘A wedding,’ Felix said dully. Something about the word tugged at his thoughts. He gripped his stomach as the wagon gave another jouncing lurch. ‘Who’s getting married?’
‘You, manling,’ Gotrek said.
‘What?’ Felix yelped and shoved himself upright. ‘What in Sigmar’s name are you talking about?’ He flung out a hand towards the Slayer. Gotrek grunted in annoyance and one huge, meaty paw clamped shut over his wrist and Felix was dragged out onto the buckboard of the wagon. He winced. He’d once seen Gotrek kill a goblin with an open-handed slap, and he’d lost count of the skulls and necks that the Slayer had broken in their time together. As he fell face-forward across the buckboard, the Slayer released him. The Slayer’s great rune-axe was sitting by his feet on the buckboard, within easy grip, and Felix’s nose almost bumped against its wicked edge. Felix hastily pulled himself up and looked around. They were on a mountain trail, though just which mountains he couldn’t say. ‘Where are we?’
Gotrek gave him a look. ‘We’re in the Worlds Edge Mountains, manling, near Iron Rock, or thereabouts. Isn’t it obvious?’
Felix looked around, taking in the stunted trees and mossy deposits that decorated the dark rocks that thrust up around them. He’d explored more mountains than he could remember since becoming Gotrek’s companion, and they all looked more or less the same to him. A thrill of alarm coursed through him, as he processed Gotrek’s words. ‘Iron Rock, as in territory of the Iron Claw orcs,’ he said slowly. ‘Why are we heading into the territory of the Iron Claw orcs, Gotrek?’
‘Calm yourself, manling, we’re not, more’s the pity,’ Gotrek said. He smiled. ‘We’re after gold, not green, today.’
‘Fine, but whose wagon is this?’
‘His,’ Gotrek said, hiking a thumb at the man at the reins. The latter turned and gave Felix a wide, yellow smile. Felix recalled that smile, though not the name that went with it. He was a wiry man, dressed like a drover, in trail-stained leathers and a heavy wool cowl and travel-cape that resembled Felix’s own bright red Sudenland cloak. Felix pulled the latter tight around him as the mountain air planted chilly kisses on his exposed flesh.
‘Who’s he, exactly?’ he hissed, looking at Gotrek.
The ugly slash of the Slayer’s grin widened amidst the orange thicket of his beard. ‘An envoy from a very old, very important manling clan, isn’t that right?’ he growled, casting a meaningful look at the drover. The yellow smile faltered, but only for a moment.
‘Aye, Metternich, if it please you,’ he said, nodding to Felix. ‘You were a bit the worse for drink last night, so I’ll not hold it against you, Herr Jaeger.’
Felix examined Metternich more closely. The man wore a pair of bone-hilted daggers on his hip, and had a face like chipped rock. He was an Ostlander by his accent, though that wasn’t surprising. There were men from every principality and nation in the Border Princes. The mountainous, heavily forested no-man’s land was claimed by a dozen or more feuding independent princedoms, as well as twice that number of would-be warlords, war-chiefs and petty landed aristocracy, all striving to control their fiefdoms.
‘How obliging,’ Felix said. ‘Maybe you’ll oblige me further and tell me what my companion is talking about?’
‘Why – the wedding contract you signed,’ Metternich said, looking askance at him.
‘What wedding contract?’ Felix asked through gritted teeth.
‘Your friend there said you were looking for a wife,’ Metternich said.
‘Did he?’ Felix turned a gimlet gaze on the Slayer, but Gotrek met it with his single eye, unperturbed.
‘I did,’ he said. ‘What of it?’
‘Why did you do that?’ Felix nearly howled. He shot to his feet, gesticulating wildly. The wagon hit a bump and his arms windmilled as he fought to keep his balance. Gotrek’s hand shot out, grabbing a handful of Felix’s jerkin. The Slayer yanked him back down into a sitting position.
‘Because it’s the only way to get the gold, manling,’ he said.
‘Oh, yes, it all makes perfect bloody sense now. Of course – the gold! How could I be so stupid?’ Felix said sarcastically. ‘What are you talking about? Where are we going? Never mind, I’m getting off here. Stop the wagon!’
‘Don’t stop the wagon,’ Gotrek rumbled.
‘Stop the wagon, Metternich,’ Felix said, rising to his feet.
‘Do it, and it’ll be the last thing you do,’ Gotrek growled.
Metternich looked from one to the other and then nodded apologetically to Felix. ‘You did sign a contract,’ he said.
‘I don’t recall doing any such thing,’ Felix snapped.
‘Well, I helped,’ Gotrek said.
Felix looked at him incredulously. Gotrek shrugged. ‘You were having trouble holding the quill. Being as you were drunk.’
‘And why, pray tell, were you so helpful in t
his matter?’ Felix said. He rubbed his aching head. ‘I can’t see how condemning me helps you find your doom…’ There was a bitter tang to the situation that Felix found naggingly familiar. He had been drunk when he’d first sworn an oath to accompany Gotrek on his quest to find a mighty doom to expunge whatever crime had set the Slayer on his suicidal path. It had made a tremendous amount of sense at the time.
‘This isn’t about doom, manling, mine or otherwise,’ Gotrek said, tapping the side of his bulbous nose. ‘Like I said, it’s about treasure: gold, manling, a thane’s ransom.’
‘Gold,’ Felix repeated, leaning back against the buckboard. There were only three things that could jostle the Slayer from his normal taciturnity – the prospect of a mighty doom, a sufficient quantity of ale, or the gold-greed that seemed to afflict the dwarfen race as a whole.
‘Gold,’ Gotrek emphasised, rubbing his big hands together in apparent glee.
‘A dowry, technically,’ Metternich interjected.
‘Of course,’ Felix said, burying his face in his hands. After a moment, he looked at Metternich. ‘Who am I marrying?’
‘Esme Shandeux,’ the man said, reaching into his cloak for something. ‘Ah, she’s a lovely girl. She’s the oldest daughter of the Shandeux clan, and judged quite a prize in these lands. I was hired to find a proper gentleman for Lady Esme to marry.’ He swept out a hand and said, ‘The Shandeux are an old family, and powerful as folk judge things.’
‘Rich – he means rich,’ Gotrek added. His single eye glittered.
‘That they are, and in the market for a husband for Esme. It doesn’t happen often, mind,’ Metternich said slyly. ‘Very insular, the Shandeux, very private.’
‘The family tree has few branches, I take it,’ Felix said bitterly.
‘More like one very large branch,’ Metternich said. ‘A bit crooked, but very sturdy.’ He found what he was looking for, and stretched an arm across Gotrek, to hand something to Felix. ‘Here she is,’ he said.
The object in question was a tarnished locket. Felix took it and flipped it open to reveal a miniature portrait, painted with great skill and care. The young woman was lovely, there was no denying it, though she was as far from the thin, waif-like Imperial noblewomen of Felix’s experience as it was possible to get. There were more curves, for one thing, and generous ones at that, from what he could tell from the head and shoulders that made up the image. ‘She’s quite striking,’ he said carefully.
‘That she is. She’s a wee thing, but she once beat a wolf to death with a half-brick in a stocking, so you can tell she has spirit.’ Metternich nodded happily.
Felix blinked, not quite knowing how to reply. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘quite. What sort of stocking was it?’
‘Forget the stocking,’ Gotrek growled. ‘Get to the gold.’
‘The Shandeux got gold all right,’ Metternich said. ‘Enough to keep them in supplies and retainers, at least. I’ve only been working for them for a few months, but they’re as wealthy as an Altdorf aristocrat.’
‘Speaking of aristocrats, I’m not one,’ Felix said. ‘You did mention that to him, didn’t you, Gotrek? Somehow, I don’t think these people are going to be happy with what you’re bringing them.’
‘We came to an arrangement,’ Gotrek said.
‘Aye,’ Metternich said. ‘An arrangement and a fine, fair one at that.’
‘Please, illuminate me,’ Felix said sourly.
Gotrek held up a gold piece. It resembled the dwarf coins Felix had seen, but there was no image stamped on it. Instead, an odd shape had been cut into it. Age and handling had worn the shape into an indistinct lump. ‘Look at it, manling,’ Gotrek grunted.
‘What am I looking at?’ Felix asked. ‘It’s just a gold piece. An old one, if I’m any judge.’
Metternich snickered and Gotrek grinned.
‘I’ve seen gold like this before, in the Badlands and the high passes of the Worlds Edge Mountains, in the ruins of ancient outposts and old fortifications, from a kingdom long dead… and good riddance to it.’ He spat a glob of spittle over the edge of the buckboard. ‘Mourkain, it was called. Or Morgheim,’ he said. ‘The orcs wiped it out long ago. Shattered their empire and destroyed their great city.’ He paused. ‘They say the orcs never breached the great vaults of that city, though. That the wealth of Mourkain still sits undisturbed in some black cavern.’ He tossed the gold piece up and caught it. ‘This gold was theirs, I’m certain of it. It bears the mark of that damned folk, or I’m a filthy grobi.’
‘And you think – what – that they’ll tell you where they got it?’
Gotrek grinned again. ‘No, but I think they’ll tell you.’
Felix stared at him. ‘This is unworthy of you, Gotrek,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I have never known you to be so – so dishonourable, before.’
‘What did you say?’ Gotrek rumbled, anger sparking in his eye. The Slayer tensed, his good humour evaporating like water on a heated stone. Accusing a dwarf of acting dishonourably was the equivalent of poking a badger with a pointy stick, but Felix hadn’t chosen the word lightly.
‘Greedy? Yes. Violent? Obviously. Foolish? Perhaps. But this…’ Felix shook his head.
‘Careful, manling,’ Gotrek growled, leaning towards him pugnaciously, his face clouding over.
Felix felt a momentary thrill of unease, but pressed on regardless.
‘But this,’ he went on, ‘this is simply beyond the pale. I wouldn’t have expected you to stoop to swindling strangers out of their coin.’
‘I’m not swindling anyone,’ Gotrek snapped. ‘It’s a marriage of moment, nothing more.’
‘A what?’ Felix said, peering at the Slayer. He looked at Metternich, who shook his head in obvious confusion.
‘A marriage of moment,’ Gotrek said. He looked at Felix as if he were an idiot. ‘It’s just a temporary contract.’ He looked at Metternich. ‘Tell him,’ he demanded. Metternich looked at him helplessly. Gotrek’s brow furrowed. His gaze swung back to Felix. ‘My people do it all the time,’ he said. ‘When two clans want to quickly seal a trading agreement or need to sift their ore a bit, they each put forth a youngling, and a marriage is made. Dowries are exchanged, the marriage is consummated, and then annulled, and both younglings return to their respective clans. Honour is satisfied and blood is shared, and the full value of the respective younglings for a future oath of marriage with a more important clan is retained, as is proper. These folk of Metternich’s need their ore sifted, and they’re offering gold. It’s the same thing, whatever manlings call it.’
‘That’s… not how human marriages work, Gotrek,’ Felix said slowly.
‘I told you, it’s not a real marriage,’ Gotrek snapped. ‘It’s completely honourable!’ Felix opened his mouth, and then closed it. Gotrek’s eye narrowed. ‘What?’ he demanded. ‘Stop gaping like a fish and say something.’
Felix ignored the fuming dwarf. He looked at Metternich. ‘How binding is that contract?’
‘You wouldn’t be thinking of backing out on me, now, would you? I made an arrangement in good faith with your friend here, and I’m not a man to be tested,’ Metternich said. His hand drooped towards his daggers. Gotrek lanced him with a sulphurous stare. Metternich swallowed and his hand jerked away from his blades as if they’d grown red hot. ‘Not that I’m the one you have to worry about, of course, but I already passed the papers along with a rider this morning, and the Shandeux, they’re not ones to let a contract be broken willy-nilly,’ he said hastily. ‘They’ve sent hired blades after more than one reluctant bridegroom, and they’ll not hesitate to do so again. They’re a very touchy family.’ He gave Felix a weak grin. ‘I assumed the plan was that you’d do a runner after the nuptials, I swear to Ranald. It didn’t make sense, otherwise.’
‘You haven’t dealt with many dwarfs, have you?’ Felix said acidly.
‘What is this fool saying, manling?’ Gotrek said.
‘He’s saying that it’s anything but a temporary c
ontract,’ Felix snapped.
Gotrek grabbed a handful of Felix’s jerkin and jerked him forward, until they were eye to eye. ‘Watch your tone, manling,’ he said. ‘It appears I was misinformed.’ He glanced at Metternich, who blanched.
Felix grabbed uselessly at Gotrek’s brawny fist. ‘Really, or were you too busy counting all that gold?’
‘I don’t recall you objecting.’
‘I was drunk!’ Felix shouted.
‘So was I,’ Gotrek said stubbornly. ‘That’s no excuse.’ He released Felix and sat back with a grunt. ‘Well, you can’t very well go about getting married when you’re still oath-bound to record my doom,’ he said, crossing his thick arms over his barrel chest.
‘This is what I’m saying,’ Felix said. ‘Metternich, stop the wagon.’
‘Quiet, manling,’ Gotrek barked. ‘You signed the contract. You are sworn to this woman, whoever she is. I’ll not travel with an oath-breaker.’
‘You– I– but–’ Felix began, trying to find the words. The dwarf’s logic was as impeccable as it was circuitous. He owed Gotrek a debt, but the Slayer had forced him into another, and the dwarf’s own sense of honour wouldn’t allow Felix to get out of either obligation. That Gotrek himself was solely responsible for the situation seemed to have escaped the dwarf entirely.
‘So what are we going to do then?’ Felix said, unable to keep a sullen note out of his voice.
‘I’ll think of something,’ Gotrek muttered.
‘Well, you’d better do it quickly because we’re here,’ Metternich said.
Felix looked up and frowned. The fortress wasn’t as impressive as he had expected. In fact, it was more like an encrustation than a fortification. It was a barnacle of crudely piled stone mingled with long marches of wooden stockade, clinging tight to the side of a mountain crag.
‘That – ha!’ Gotrek gave an explosive bark of laughter. ‘That’s what they call a citadel?’
‘It’s served them well enough since they first came to these lands,’ Metternich said. ‘They say more than one band of raiders looking for Shandeux gold found out just how strong those walls are, back then.’ He clicked his tongue and snapped the reins, urging the mules into motion. The winding mountain path slithered up and around towards the gatehouse for the fortress.
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