Interlude: A memory of Remer
The sun was shining down on a lazy summer morning, as Lyudmila ran down the streets of Remer towards the small port. From her bedroom window she’d seen an unfamiliar ship, with strange, angular markings on the sail heading towards the town. As she reached the pier, she saw the ship had laid to, and the crew were busy unloading masses of crates from the hold.
«Dwarfs!», she squealed with delight.
She’d seen ships unload many times, but there was something endlessly fascinating in seeing how even a modest river barge could vomit up such a large load of stuff. She always imagined how the boxes were really treasure chests, waiting to be opened to spill out spoils of adventure.
Watching the dwarves work, she noticed a difference from other ships she’d seen. When normal merchants came, from Bechafen, Nagenhof or other places, the captain usually went around bossing the others, and never ever carried anything himself. Here the leader of the group not only carried at least as much as the others, but also seemed like he was the one most used to being on a river port.
He seemed a bit older than the other dwarves, although it wasn’t easy to tell with all the beard they all had. He was stocky and broad, even compared to the others, and had long, flowing salt and pepper beard and hair beautifully braided, and held in place by a shiny circlet of silver. From time to time he shouted to the others in some strange, guttural language.
After a while, all the crates were unloaded, and the leader sat down with his back resting against a large, brown box, while the rest of the dwarves went about other business.
«Excuse me, mister dwarf», Lyudmila said nervously.
«Are you the dwarf chief?»
«Dwarves don’t have chiefs», he barked.
«Oh. I’m sorry!» she said, crimson colour rising in her cheeks.
As she turned to leave, she saw his eyes soften, and a small smile play on his lips.
«We have thanes» he said.
Lyudmila stood, shifting her weight from one foot to another, unsure of whether she should dare another question. Finally, curiosity won out.
«So you’re the dwarf thane then?»
«I am Kardan Greymane, son of thane Brulgrok, avenger of Brudduf, slayer of Ulgan, and High thane of Karak Raziak» he said, in a mesmerizing sing-song voice.
«Oh my», she said, trying to imagine what was behind all those words.
«And who are you, lass?»
«I’m Lyudmila», she said.
«Daughter of Ivan the miller, finder of pretty rocks, owner of Sniffer, the best ratcatcher dog in Remer», she added, imitiating the dwarf’s sing-song tone.
«And the best treeclimber in Remer, no matter what that snot-nosed Bernie says», she finished.
«I’m honored», the dwarf said, smiling.
«Lyudmila, that’s a Kislev name, if ever I heard one.»
«It’s from my great-grandmother. She was one of the first from Kislev here, they say. But noone really cares about that. Not anymore anyways, father says.»
«Your daddy’s right. It wasn’t always like that, lass», the dwarf replied.
He rummaged in a pocket deep inside his overcoat, and fished out a shiny silver coin.
«Tell you what, Lyudmila Treeclimber. If you run over to the Flaming Hammer inn and bring me something to drink and eat, I’ll tell you a story about how it was when your great-grandmother lived.»
Lyudmila was fast on her feet when she wanted to be. Soon she returned with a tankard of ale, and a steaming piece of pie. The dwarf downed half of the ale in one huge gulp, and gave a tremendous belch. Lyudmila tried to not laugh.
Unperturbed, he sank his teeth into the warm, juicy pie.
«Aaaah, that taste…» he sighed contentedly.
«It’s Martilla Grudbelly’s best pork and sage pie», Lyudmila said.
«She says she got the recipe from her father, who used to run the inn long ago.»
«I’m sure she did,» the dwarf said, staring out over the sluggish Talabec river as it lazily flowed by.
«So what’s the story about», she prodded.
«It’s about a dwarf, called Brock».
«Was he like you?»
«No, he was a lot younger than me. And he was sad.»
«Why was he sad?»
«He had lost himself, you see. And he had lost his father and his brother, even if he didn’t know it then.»
«That sounds like a depressing story.»
«Ah, it wasn’t all bad. You see, he had made friends.»
And so the dwarf told her about how Brock had been fished out of the river near Remer. How he didn’t know who he was or where he was from, but that a terrible sense of loss and shame ached in his heart. How he met a zealous young Sigmar-priest called Erhardt. About Erwin Drache, an intrepid investigator out to clear his father’s name, and Rob Schönefische, a brutal fighter with a kind heart deeply hidden. About a mischievous young halfling called Nick who always got them into (and, rarely, out of) trouble, and even about an arrogant and strange elven sorcerer.
«Can’t really remember the name though. Aksomandril? Ambivalin? Anyway, he had a tendency to use magic that was almost as dangerous to his friends as their enemies. Not the worst sort though. For an elf.»
He told of how they rid Remer of a brutal gang of Kislev gangsters. How they defended the other Kislevites when the town turned against them. How they found and stopped a horrifying cult spreading pestilence through the land. Of how Erwin became mayor of Remer, and how they met a dashing young duelist from Tilea called Luka. How they fought and bested the dread Gravelord, and how Brock found out what had happened to his family.
He told of feasts with Strigani, dangerous travels to the lands of the dead, of horrifying fights against hordes of chaos far in the north.
As the story wound down, the sun was hanging low. The dwarf sat silent for a while.
«Where are they all now?» Lyudmila asked. Already, her mind raced with thoughts of all the adventures she would have when she grew up.
The dwarf got a far away look in his eyes.
«Oh, they’re all gone, long ago.»
«Don’t you know what happened to them?»
«Well, Erhardt got his wish of doing Sigmar’s work, leading squadrons of crazed zealots on crusades against the chaos forces. Luka got wealthy building a trading network with the dwarves in the mountains. Rob became a champion renowned through the eastern empire, and attracted many less-than-upstanding people to work for him. Erwin was mayor many years, and did a lot to make the different peoples in Remer get along. I hear he even got the ban on Strigani rituals lifted. Nick traveled the world, before coming back to Remer and running the Flaming Hammer inn. I hear no halfling ever was fatter or happier. They’re all dead now, for many years.»
«What, even the elf?»
«No. Elves never die. They just watch with a wistful smile as all the rest of us do. I think he finally sailed home to wherever the elves have their secret home, after having spent enough time learning all the interesting ways to use magic to wreck things.»
«What about Brock?»
«You know what, lass? It’s getting late. I need to rest a bit, and then I have a lot more work to do. I think you should run back to the mill. I’m sure your mother has supper waiting.»
Lyudmila stood unsure a while.
«Thank you for the story, master thane», she said.
«Think nothing of it. You brought an old dwarf some good food and drink, and let me ramble a bit. I’m sure many years from now, you’ll have your own stories to tell. Now, shoo!»
He leaned back, closing his eyes, letting the dying summer sun caress his scarred and wrinkled face. His circlet slipped, and one of his braids came loose, revealing a massive scar from his right temple down to his jaw.
Trembling, Lyudmila reached out and tenderly touched it.
«You’re Brock, aren’t you?»
Like lightning, a massive fist grabbed her arm. The grip was like a vice of iron.
Behind the dwarf’s eyes, a stormcloud raged. His lips curled back in a snarl.
«Only my friends are ever allowed to call me that!»
In a flash, Lyudmila saw the dwarf as another person. Covered in blood, screaming in rage as he waded through enemies.
The storm lifted, and the dwarf’s face softened. Slowly, he released her arm and gently patted her cheek.
«Tell you what, mistress treeclimber. If you promise to keep it a secret, I’ll let you call me Brock.»
«Th…thank you, mast…I mean, Brock. I won’t tell anyone.»
«It’s OK. Remember this: You can’t run away from your past. But sometimes, it’s OK to let the past be the past.»
Then he straightened his circlet. The bloodsoaked berserker was gone again, buried under a wizened, peaceful and regal mask. Leaning back, he closed his eyes again.
«Goodbye, Lyudmila Ivansdaughter.»
«Goodbye, Brock» she said.
Walking towards home, she turned around to gaze back at the pier. The old dwarf was no longer there, leaving only the ship, and the river, drifting slowly along, as it ever does.
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