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The Contest - Jordan Ellinger

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The Contest

Jordan Ellinger

The common room of the coach house went silent after Felix entered. Gore covered his Sudenland cloak and mud, stained by half-clotted arterial blood, was plastered to his chain shirt. Four or five men, as hard as army rations, glared at him as he combed travel dust out of his blond locks with a clawed hand.

‘Out of the way, manling,’ mumbled Gotrek as he pushed his way towards the bar. He paid the other men no mind and heaved himself onto a stool. The innkeeper, cut from the same cloth as his clientele, cleaned a tankard with sausage-like fingers. ‘Ale,’ said the Slayer, pointing at a spot on the bar in front of him.

Felix glanced nervously at the men as he joined Gotrek. They watched, steely-eyed, as he took his place. ‘Do you have somewhere I could clean up?’ he asked as the innkeeper plunked a tankard in front of the Slayer.

The innkeeper snorted. Then he glanced over Felix’s right shoulder and returned to his spot at the end of the bar without saying a word.

‘Ye been in some trouble, blondie?’ asked a rough voice behind him.

Felix turned around. One of the men stood far too close for comfort.

‘We were ambushed by bandits in the hills outside town,’ he offered.

One of the men stood abruptly, fists slamming down on the table.

‘Me cousin’s in them hills.’

Alarmed, Felix’s hand fell to the pommel of his sword. ‘Gotrek…’ he said warily. As he began to rise, a hand slammed into his chest, knocking him back onto his stool.

Gotrek’s tankard thunked down on the bar, empty. He flashed the innkeeper a quick signal as he rose, indicating that he wouldn’t be long and expected to see it full when he returned. Then he turned his attention to the ruffians. ‘Care to try that on a dwarf?’

The big man seemed to swell, but he was interrupted by the innkeeper before he could explode. ‘Not inside city limits, Boxen. The sheriff’ll be called, and t’will be the gaol for the five of ye.’

‘We have no quarrel with you,’ said Felix. ‘My friend and I want to enjoy a few ales and then we’ll be on our way.’

Boxen’s thin lips cracked into a smile. ‘Oh, the dwarf likes a drink, does ’e?’

‘More than a man with two coppers in his pocket loves your mother,’ said Gotrek, cracking a yellow-toothed smile.

Boxen darkened, and his words came out in a growl ‘Tells ye what. We’ll all drink with ye. The dwarf matches us pint for pint and we’ll leave ye in peace.’

‘And if we lose?’ asked Felix cautiously.

‘Then we take ye outside the walls and bash yer heads in.’

‘Done!’ roared Gotrek, slamming his axe into the bar, where it stood, handle quivering. ‘Bring us a keg, barkeep!’

The way Boxen’s eyes gleamed sent shivers up Felix’s spine. ‘I don’t think–’

‘The day a human outdrinks me is the day I hang up my axe, manling,’ bellowed Gotrek as the innkeeper rolled a barrel out of the back room and tapped it. He filled six tankards and placed them on a central table. Boxen and his men took their places and Gotrek and Felix sat opposite.

Nobly, Boxen downed the first pint, and then turned it upside down on the table in front of him. Gotrek snatched up the next pint and let the beer flow down his throat in record time, leaving only a smear of froth on his red beard, which he cleaned off with his tongue.

Instead of taking another pint, Boxen offered it to one of his men, who smiled wickedly and then downed it slowly. As soon as the empty tankard hit the table, Boxen indicated with a wave that Gotrek should drink again.

‘Hold on,’ said Felix. ‘It’s not his turn yet.’

‘Like hell it’s not,’ said Boxen. ‘The dwarf ’ad to match “us” pint for pint. We drank two tankards – ’e needs to drink again.’

‘But there are five of you,’ said Felix, struggling to keep the whine out of his voice. Gotrek’s ability to hold his drink was legendary even among dwarfs, but there was surely no way he could outdrink five ruffians like these.

‘They should have brought eight,’ grunted Gotrek as he downed another pint. He gasped, and then set down the empty tankard.

Pint after pint disappeared, and soon the innkeeper had to tap another keg. Cups were filled without being washed and men too drunk to stumble to the jakes simply found a corner to relieve themselves in, their waste soaking the sawdust that covered the floor. If the innkeeper had any objections then they were silenced by a look from Boxen.

The night was halfway done when the first of the men could not be roused from his chair. Boxen cursed loudly and kicked at him, but succeeded only in knocking the drunk into a patch of wet sawdust.

‘More,’ Gotrek shouted incoherently. He picked up the keg itself and knocked loose the spigot, letting the last few drops of ale drip into his mouth before slamming it down as if it was a huge tankard.

Two more kegs disappeared over the next hour, and with them more of Boxen’s men. A skinny, rat-faced man with a peeling, sunburnt face simply collapsed where he stood – his head hit the edge of the table hard and spurted red blood. Boxen ignored him, looking blearily at the Slayer instead.

‘Yer… inhuman,’ he slurred.

Gotrek answered without looking up from his pint. ‘No. In-dwarf-an!’

He gurgled happily at his own wordplay, and then reached for a tankard. It was empty. He glared at it angrily and fumbled for another barrel. There were none. ‘More booze!’ he roared.

The innkeeper appeared. ‘We’re done. Between you lot, you’ve drank half as much again as one o’ the prince’s regiments. We’re empty.’

Felix breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps they’d be able to walk away without things turning into a brawl for once. ‘Well then, gentlemen, it seems–’

Before he finished his sentence, a wooden keg flew through the air and smashed into a black-haired lout too drunk to dodge away.

Felix sighed and turned around. Gotrek stood before him, swaying slightly. ‘What?’ he said with a shrug. ‘If I can’t get a drink, at least I’ll get a fight.’

With that, Gotrek shoved Felix out of the way of a poorly aimed tankard and launched himself at Boxen. There was a clatter of breaking furniture, and someone took a glass bottle to the face.

Felix shook his head as he regained his feet. Get away without a brawl? Not likely. Not while Gotrek was drunk…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jordan Ellinger is a recent first place winner in the Writers of the Future contest and a Clarion West graduate, and his work can be seen in numerous anthologies across the science fiction and fantasy genres. When he is not writing, he is a freelance editor attached to such projects as Every Day Fiction and Raygun Revival.

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Published in 2012 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

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