Mordheim

A Not So Pointless Tale
By Christian Bene Ellegaard" <[email protected]>

Bertrand stepped down the stairs to the cellar of the Twisted Goat. The landlord, Omikhee, had told him that there should be at least one or two empty rooms down there, and although he was tired, for he had been traveling for the whole night, he hurried down, driven by the thought of a nice, warm bed. The torches cast a weak light on the gray stone walls and revealed the numbers on the doors. "Twelve ... thirteen ... fourteen ..." he counted, and as he reached the last door he grabbled for the knob. The old hings moaned, and a spider nearly landed in his hair as the door went up. It was fairly small, of the same size as all the other rooms in the tavern, but in the back wall there was a fire place, and the dancing
flames lit the room slightly up and made all the shadows dancing. Along one of the walls was a rather small bed, and along the other was a large bookcase with a lot of old, dusty books piled on each other in an apparently random way. And in the middle there was a low table. A couple of candles were set up and had burnt for many hours, and a black inkpot stood in the middle of a mess of pergaments. Behind the table sat a small figure dressed in a large coat. It was impossible to see his face, for his head was covered by a big hood, and from his right hand a goose quill danced over the pages of a great book. The person in the room seemed to ignore that Bertrand had entered - a fact that didn't make the impatience of the wanderer any better. He gazed at the scribe for a moment. "Little man, get out of here if you want to avoid trouble." But the shadow seemed to disregard Bertrand, and the fleshy traveler threw his bag on the floor. "Now, this is my room. If you don't drag yourself out there, then I
won't hesitate to beat the stuff out of you!" he growled, and suddenly the quill stopped. The scribe looked up, and as the hood fell back the yellowish light from the candles revealed the face of the person.
The youthful features and the short, brown hair confirmed that it was only a child, but the quill and the papers made Bertrand question the age of the boy. Twelve? Thirteen? Perhaps even older? He started to laugh. He had never seen anything as rediculous as a kid writing big books - and he did not even believe it. He stood there and laughed for a long time until something suddenly hit his brow. "Auch!" he cried and touched the spot where he was hit. As he inspected his fingers he saw some red liquid ... blood... "Sigmar! What are you doing, kid!" he yelled and drew his sword. The boy got up, quickly and adroitly, and in his hand he had a loaded slingshot. "You hurt me! You wounded me! You'll pay for that...!" And he prepared to charge the scribe, but all he achieved was to plant his sword deep into the table and overthrow the furniture and spread the papers all over the room. "You fool!" laughed the boy. "It was a berry!" Bertrand got up, slowly, and shook his head. "A berry..." he murmured. "But you'll pay anyway!" And in a clumsy attempt to reach the kid he leapt up in the air, but
the youngster was superior and managed to dodge the failed attack easily. He laughed out loud again. "Your legs are not what they used to be, eh?" he teased and circled around the big stranger. "But next time you will get struck by a stone rather than a berry, and that hurts!" Bertrand moaned and dragged his sword out of the table. He had failed - he had been humilitated by a kid! "No, no, my dear guest!" commanded the boy in a friendly voice. "You shouldn't bother yourself with carrying around with that piece of dumb metal. Just put it down again." The man studied the boy suspiciously - then he agreed to abandon his weapon.

"What's your name, kid?" he inquired and sat down. The boy gazed at Bertrand and frowned. Then he smiled. "If you will stay here for some time then I do not doubt that we well meet some time anyway, so you can call me Mouse. Most people do that." "Mouse! Ha!" cried the man and laughed. "That's about the most silly name I've ever heard! Who gave you that name?" The boy's face darkened. "You'd rather like to keep quiet if you desire your eyes." Bertrand guffawed and tilted on the small chair. "Oh, I'm sorry, your highness Mouse, don't..." Then a stone hit his shin. With a loud cry the chair tipped, and with a lot of noise he was overthrown and landed on his back. "You ... little ... basterd!" he bellowed and grobed for his aching leg. Although the stone had not caused any wound a big, red spot was to see where the stone had hit him. "You'll pay for this later, kid!" "Sure! You can have a mug of sour milk when we go up, but right now you got to fix my table and clean up. Look, what a hell of a mess you have done!" Mouse glanced over the room. "No! Damn no!" mumbled Bertrand and got up. "This is too much!" He stepped towards the door and took his bag. "Stop," said Mouse. "You can leave if you want, but I promise that then you can't sleep on your back tonight." For a moment he hesitated and looked back at Mouse. His slingshot was loaded, and the boy was ready to fire it. He considered whether he should stay and make a fool of himself or find another place to sleep before he would get stultified even more. Then he pulled the door in a hurry and took one step out. A big, round stone hit the back of his head with a great power and caused a dumb sound, and he dropped his bag and collapsed, fell as long as he was on the corridor. With a sigh Mouse put his slingshot back to his belt, stepped over to the stranger and began to drag him over the floor. He took the heavy man up to the tap hall where all the guests were sitting and drinking beers, telling stories and spreading rumors. As they saw the unconscious man they all suddenly kept quiet. "Mouse!" bellowed one of the men. "What have you done?" The boy shook his head and looked around, trying to find someone who could help the unfortunate man. "He tried to get me out of my room, that fool. He messed it all up - threw around with the furniture and all the books and stuff, and I warned him that if he wouldn't clean it up again then he would have to pay for it." The crowd started muttering, and some of them laughed out loud. "Well," said a guest. "Now he certainly can't clean your room up!" And the people burst in laughter. Omikhee came and inspected the stranger, and as he saw the wound in his head he picked him up and carried him up the stairs. "Now you certainly deserve a drink!" said a tall, long-haired man and put his hand on the boy's shoulder. Mouse looked up and saw the strange Norseman, David Stillman. He was a weird man - not really a man, a bit ghost-like, but actually not a ghost too. He could hardly feel his hand on his shoulder. "No thanks," said Mouse and smiled. "I'd better go down and clean up a bit,"
And with his usual agility he slipped out of the crowd before anyone could say a word.