Chapter 18. The Mountains of Mourn
After
the defeat of the dark fleet, the Maw's Jaws sailed uneventfully slipped
uneventfully to the east of Ulthuan on her way to the Northern Great Ocean.
Although
Welhung Thunderloin had succeeded in his primary mission, the acquisition of
the slann for his wife, Hellun, it was considered bad luck and poor economics
for an ogre ship to return to port with an empty hold. Hellun would not give birth until a sacrifice
was made to the Great Maw. Welhung's harried
kitchen staff could attempt to satisfy her whims in the interim.
In
the process of filling her cavernous hold the ogre vessel terrorized the
islands and hinterland from Norsca to Araby.
The raiders would put ashore, ransack cheerfully and cast off again
before effective resistance could be mounted.
One does not simply repel an ogre war party with anything less than an
army.
By
the time the Maw's Jaws groaned around Southlands Cape and entered the Sea of
Dread, she was already wallowing low in the water. After raiding her way up the coastline of
Ind, she was close to going under.
The
hardest part of the voyage was the passage of the Scalded Delta of the River
Ruin. The sluggish waters wound through
shifting channels and stinking mats of grey reeds. With such a convoluted route, and many false
turns, it was impossible to make way under sail. The crew had to pole the vessel along using
her great sweeps. Eventually they left
the foetid marshes behind and made sail to Pigbarter.
To
call Pigbarter a city, would have been to call a Skaven slave courageous. The settlement was permanent, in the sense
that its location did not change, but the inhabitants were in a constant state
of flux. No one claimed this armpit as
home. Certainly no one expended any
effort on civic works or beautification projects.
Pigbarter
straddled the River Ruin and the Southern Spice Route which linked the Old
World with Ind, Grand Cathay and beyond.
The trading hub was nominally under the protection of the Ogre Kingdoms. A mutually beneficial relationship had been
established with the nomadic traders which rarely involved wholesale slaughter
and looting.
For
the Ogres, Pigbarter provided a market for their captured slaves and beasts,
and a source of ceramics, silver and spices.
As long as the ogre crews had ready access to vast quantities of food
and drink while their captains haggled, they rarely did more than smash up the
dock area.
Welhung
ordered the Maw's Jaws be dragged ashore and dry docked. He converted the remnant of the Naggarothii
captives into condiments and cheap tableware, and arranged hire of a number of
large wagons to supplement his freight capacity. He did not tarry, because his love awaited
him in the broad pass between Fire Mouth volcano and Over-tyrant Golgfag's
tribal lands, far to the north.
The
River Ruin was navigable as far north as Greasus Goldtooth's kingdom, but the
hazards of the river were legendary.
Whatever didn't eat you usually charged exorbitant taxes. There was no way to sail past the cannons of
Black Fortress without paying the steep toll.
Greasus himself would take a large slice of pie when travellers reached
his holdings.
West
of Pigbarter the caravan route curved sharply north to the Sentinels. The inhabitants of this ancient fortress were
as greedy as King Greasus and somewhat less trustworthy.
Although
not the fastest or easiest route, striking out across the Dark Lands presented
a course with few significant natural barriers and no tolls. An ogre force the size of Wellhung's had
little to fear from the nomadic greenskins of that area, and the necromantic
sorcerers and chaos dwarves tended not to move out of the territories they had
established, and were thus easily avoided.
***
During
the hard months of raiding the crew's attitude towards their Lucky Chef,
Caneghem, went from grudging respect to adoration. That he had saved the ship and crew from
certain destruction was a secondary consideration. It was what he could do in the kitchen which
garnered their praise.
On
the open sea, his culinary creativeness was hampered by seasickness and a
monotonous supply of ingredients.
Whenever the Maw's Jaws made landfall, Caneghem shone.
Wherever
the raiders camped, a palatial kitchen tent was set up. The little skink was placed on a raised
platform so that he could see over the brims of the huge pots that bubbled
around him. Swarms of gnoblar kitchen
hands hung on his words, and scribes recorded them. It seemed he could do no wrong.
An
encounter in the citrus grove of a Bretonnian noble could have ended badly when
glittering knights galloped into view.
This potential disaster was turned into gastronomic triumph with the
creation of the recipe, Duke a l'Orange.
Later,
the ogres crossed swords with an undead host north-east of Tilea. The outcome was uncertain, because undead
forces are very tough. However, under
Caneghem's inspiring leadership, the tenderizing blows of ogre clubs and three
days of broiling, the ensuing Ghoulash was tender and delicious.
In
similar fashion, the ogre's palates were enlivened by such delicacies as
Chicken Kislev, Quiche Loren, Ghorgonzola, and Altdorf Salad. This last recipe is similar to traditional
green-skin salad, but it also contains Imperial Flagellants. The nuts give it a delicious crunch.
***
Welhung's
convoy eventually snaked its way out of the Dark Lands and ascended the
unimaginatively named "Pass to the East" above the Lake of Eyes valley. At a natural chokepoint the way was barred by
a stone wall guarded by a garrison of ogre troops.
Welhung
strode up to the bristling defences with his honour guard of Ironguts. A stout warden shouted the traditional
challenge, "Who goes there? Friend
or Food?"
Argsplat
bellowed the traditional reply, "It's me, you gormless 'alfwit! Open the gate!"
The
iron bound portcullis creaked upwards and the caravan trundled through. From his perch on Welhung's wain, Caneghem
thought the yawning gate with its fringe of spikes looked ominously like a
ravenous mouth.
Welhung
and Argsplat watched the wagons rumble through the shadow of the gate.
"These
ones are mine," the Irongut captain
declared as he hooked a chest and large bag of loot from bed of the last wain.
"So,
next raiding season?" Welhung enquired gruffly.
"Maybe
not. I'm thinking about retiring. My Dam is needing more 'elp around the 'ouse,
what with her not 'aving any arms or legs, and all."
The
ogre tyrant clasped Argsplat's left wrist.
"Maw's blessings. I'll get
you transferred to the wall guards. The
ironguts 'ere could use some extra 'ands....sorry. An extra 'and. They look weak."
Welhung
eyed the border guards critically. They
were looking thin. Their hides hung
slackly from their bones, and he fancied that he could see the occasional rib. In comparison, the ogres of the war party
were plump and in peak condition.
As
the convoy rumbled further along the Path to the East, it dwindled in size as
each raider took his share of plunder and drifted back to his home and
family. By the time Welhung halted in
the courtyard of his large villa, he was left with a single overloaded wagon
driven by his faithful lieutenant, Rodekhil Offaleater. The young bull rhinox which drew the wagon
stamped nervously as Rodekhil vaulted off the board and retreated twenty paces.
Welhung
was finally home. He tramped up to the
door of his villa and flung wide the door.
" 'Ello?" he called
uncertainly.
There
was a piercing squeal, "Daddy's 'ome!" followed by a stampede of
heavy feet. Welhung spread his arms wide
to block the doorway and braced himself as his offspring thundered toward
him. Try as he might, he was unable to
intercept a single child for a hug. Like
so many enormous greased piglets, the whole mob slipped past him and swarmed
the wagon.
Shaking
his head affectionately, the proud father mounted the stairs in search of his
wife. He entered a darkened chamber on
the second floor.
"IS
THAT YOU, CUPCAKE?" Every crow and
vulture within a league of the ear shredding voice took to the air in alarm as
the sound reverberated around the mountains.
In the higher peaks, devastating avalanches were triggered.
Welhung
threw open the curtains, located his beloved and squeezed her hand. It felt weak and thin. Despite
her advanced pregnancy, it seemed that she had lost weight in the months since
he had last seen her, and her voice seemed terribly weak.
"I've
brought you the slann, my sweet," he said, his voice tremulous with
concern.
"NAH. I'M NOT 'UNGRY."
Now
Welhung was really worried. He studied
her slack face and was about to speak when he was interrupted by a high pitched
squeal, followed by the staccato patter of fleshy feet. One of his brood rushed, wailing, into the
room and seized his leg. He enveloped
the child in an embrace. "What is
it? What 'ave you hurt?"
The
infant paused momentarily and pointed at her mouth before burying her face in
her father's thigh again. There was
another distressed squeal, and another child pattered in and latched onto his other
leg. A third scream emanated from
outside the villa. Welhung went to the
window to investigate as quickly as his encumbered legs could carry him.
The
wagon was destroyed. Durable items were
scattered far and wide about the courtyard.
Edible goods had already been devoured.
The young bull rhinox, still in its traces, had been reduced to a heap
of gnawed bones.
Welhung
arrived at the window just in time to see one of his young attempting to take a
large chomp out of the Lucky Chef who was standing miserably in the ruins of
the wagon.
Black
sparks flared from the skink priest's skin as the magical ward from the Pendant
of Khaeleth protected him from the infant's teeth. The child reeled back with a squeal, hands
clamped over a stinging mouth and eyes wide and brimming with tears.
Seconds
later, an older boy managed to clamber up onto Taisteslaikck'ken's palanquin,
intending to sample space frog. The
result was even more spectacular. A rainbow
of glowing energies erupted and hurled the lad back ten paces.
"Rodekhil!" Welhung called to his lieutenant who was
lurking in the shadows of the gate.
"Take that pair round to the scullery. They can't stay 'ere."
Rodekhil
nodded acquiescence and pushed the floating throne around the back of the villa
with two fingertips. Caneghem trotted to
keep up. The ogre whistled tunelessly as
he went. No doubt his master had
intended for the cold bloods to be delivered as ingredients, but Rodekhil had a
cunning plan. The scheme required the
skink to stay out of the frying pan. He
would go into the fire instead.
***
The
Ogre Kingdoms were a loose confederation in uneasy equilibrium. Each noble house had a long and proud
history. Each felt it had claim to the
overlord-ship of its peers. The Ogre
Over-Tyrant at this time was the fierce Marbutt Hurrtz father of none other
than Wellhung's bride, Hellun of Troyarg.
Tyrant
Marbutt believed he had a plan to keep hold of the reins of power. If he kept his thralls focused on external
foes, and on their bellies, there would be no change to the status quo. He was right and wrong at the same time. His plan was sound, and effective. It was just that, despite appearances, it was
not HIS plan. The real powers behind the
throne were the kitchens.
The
ogres might plan their affairs and prosecute war against their enemies. Exactly what they were up to was all but
irrelevant to the High Chefs of their kitchens.
The
Chef's of the noble ogre houses wielded significant influence, but the facts
that tenure was permanent and that the clients were voracious ogres who would
devour just about anything, led to a degree of slackness among the high chefs.
For
example, the High Chef to the Over-Tyrant was of such advanced years that his
tastebuds were just about burnt out. To
get any sensation from them at all he needed to add excessive amounts of chilli
pepper to every recipe. An occasional
spicy dish is good for the soul, but after sixty-seven years the palate yearns
for a change. Also, Over-Tyrant Marbutt
Hurrtz had found the fare to have painful after effects, and his
"throne" room was shunned by his subjects.
Welhung's
own High Chef, originally a captive from Swedia, would gibber incomprehensively
and produce disturbing, and sometimes dangerous, experimental dishes.
Rodekhil
Offaleater was a good deal more astute than he looked. During his brief time back in the kingdom
with his lord, he had seen that the ogre populace was failing. From babe to crone, the people were starving,
but yet they did not hunger.
Through
neglect or design, the Great Kitchens had obviously failed to nourish the ogre
kingdoms. He doubted that the ogres, in
their weakened state, could now stand against an external threat.
Rodekhil
saw that the members of Welhung's warband were hale and plump. He reasoned that the lucky chef was
responsible for their good condition.
Perhaps he could assume the role of High Chef if a vacancy opened.
The
ogre considered how he might facilitate the succession process without the
finger of blame turning upon himself. After
a while he came up with the perfect solution.
If
the Swedian Chef were found strangled, everyone would blame his spaghetti
bolognaise.
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