go. ”
Behind him Rik was startled to hear a groan emerge from Sardec’s lips. It seemed that he was alive after all.
Rik strode back to where Weasel knelt by the Barbarian. The poacher shook his head and reached forward into the bloody mess that was the Barbarian’s tunic. He pulled forth a torn canvas money belt in which the glitter of gold was visible. Weasel looked up and gave Rik a strange lop-sided smile.
“It’s what he would have done. You can’t take it with you. We’ll drink a toast to his health with it, and then some.”
“If you don’t put that money back right now, I am going to stick it so far up your arse you’ll have gold teeth.” said the Barbarian. It looked like he was going to live after all. Rik was glad.
The End
About the Author
Aeons ago seeking a better life than that offered as dole claimant under the gloomy skies of his grim northern homeland, Bill King fled south to the ancient, daemon haunted metropolis of Nottingheim.
Amid its narrow alleys and fog-shrouded streets, he stumbled into the unhallowed precincts of the Low Pavement Studios of the Workshop of Games where he was initiated into the blood-stained mysteries of the Adeptus Scriptorum.
After years of gruelling toil amid the clatter of the great Script Engines, he clambered to the position of Scribe Third Class With Very Occasional Responsibility for Game Development. Driven mad by the endless perusal of forbidden books he took flight, passing through the fleshpots of South East Asia and Stranraer till he eventually came to rest in the doomed city of Prague, from which he makes occasional forays into the great world beyond.
The sound of buckets of six-sided dice being thrown onto baize covered tabletops haunts his nightmares still.
