TROUBLE BREWING A JAKKOB BUGMANSSON TALE Jakkob Bugmansson, Brewmaster General of Barak-Nar, is famed for the quality of his alecraft and his shrewd eye for profit. In this story by Nick Horth, Bugmansson journeys to the Eightpoints in search of ancestral secrets that might aid his quest for the perfect pint. ‘Like so many Khazalid bloodlines that claim to have survived the horrors of the Unbak-Grund intact, the exact origins of Clan Bugman are difficult to discern. Rune etchings recovered from the mines of Karaz- Rhak appear to suggest that one Angbuld Bugmansson was once an honoured guest of High King Gori Grotculler’s court, but there exists equally persuasive evidence of major alehouses bearing the iconography of the ‘six Xs’ as far afield as the Pallorwastes of the eastern Shyish Innerlands and even – some whisper – beneath the cursed lands of the Eightpoints. It certainly seems possible that the clan of brewmasters had mastered the business of realms-wide corporate franchising long before the foundation of the sky-empire.’ The Bugmansson Legacy: A Study of the Noble Brewmasters by Svend Skagrund Gunnery Sergeant Geffi Tulsdottr’s support for her current mission had at first been lukewarm. Some weeks ago, when the extraction team had first entered the Eightpoints via night-time aetherchute drop, losing half their numbers in the process, she would have downgraded that to ‘unenthusiastic’. Currently, she was feeling downright mutinous. Had it been eight days or ten that they had been wandering this cursed wilderness, assailed by whooping bands of skull-wearing savages and unspeakable abominations? Her chronorig had packed up long ago. ‘You know what I would give for a deck beneath my boots and the wind at my back?’ grumbled Thunderer Bargi Dronk, hefting his heavy mortar. ‘Wishes are for aelves and beardlings,’ said Thunderer Graum. The other survivors of Tulsdottr’s section – Thunderers Laffi, Hadramsson, Steffig and Gundersson – muttered their agreement. ‘Tell that to the oh-so-famous Brewmaster General,’ said Dronk, gesturing at the figure striding across the sulphurwastes ahead. ‘He’s wishing for a miracle if he thinks we’re going to find anything in this hellhole. Whoever on the Council signed off on this outing needs to be lashed to an endrin and flown through a flock of razor-wings.’ ‘Quiet,’ Tulsdottr hissed. ’You’re supposed to be professional soldiers, not slack-mouthed aeronauts swapping outlandish tales in some back-port drinking pit.’ This place was beginning to get to them. Even she could feel it. The duardin in the distance turned to face them, his weather-beaten face bared to the elements as he beckoned the Barak-Nar Thunderers over. The Brewmaster General’s empty right eye socket gave the permanent impression that he was giving a bawdy wink. ‘We’re close, my lads and ladies,’ Jakkob Bugmansson bellowed, brandishing a small brass orb with two whirring antennae – some custom-built form of aethermantic locator. ‘The signal’s blaring. We’re so very close now.’ With that, he trudged on, swaying slightly from side to side under the sloshing weight of his back-mounted keg. Tulsdottr sighed. The truth was that their company had jumped at the chance to accompany the legendary Jakkob Bugmansson in his endeavours; after all, what soldier wouldn’t want to serve alongside Barak-Nar’s famed Brewmaster General, the genius whose frothing concoctions quenched their throats and warmed their cheeks after every hard-fought battle? The thing was, it was all very well meeting your heroes, so long as they didn’t drag you along to the most dangerous corner of the realms on some damned fool’s errand that would get you all horribly killed. Which was exactly what Bugmansson had done. They tracked the aethermatic signal to a charred crater at the foot of a series of craggy hillocks smothered in an ill-looking yellow mist. The curved shell of an endrin lay rusting on the ground, attached to a harness that had been shredded either in the crash or subsequently – Tulsdottr could not be sure. There were several gouging tears in the thick metal of the endrincasing. ‘Claw marks, by the look of it,’ she said. ‘Doubtless courtesy of the same beast that brought down the endrin-cutter.’ Thunderer Laffi whistled softly. ‘Wouldn’t like to come face to face with whatever did that.’ The package itself was nowhere to be seen. ‘The first Bugmansson Distilleries were opened in Barak-Nar some eight-score years after the Battle of Madralta, during the era that serious students of Kharadron brewcraft have come to know as the Wars of Fermentation. During this period, several rival guild-companies battled over profitable contracts to supply the rapidly growing Kharadron navy with shipboard ale. Bugmansson’s Breweries would face stiff competition from Gulbar Gold Standard, Skyfarer’s Choice and, of course, their most resilient foes – the Firehop Brothers of Barak-Zon. Far from taking place solely within boardrooms and offices, this ‘war’ was often fought with fists, bar stools and whatever else was close to hand. Indeed, during the ceremony that bestowed the title of Brewmaster General upon the legendary Bjarni Bugmansson – making him the first duardin to ever hold that hallowed position – proceedings were interrupted several times by low-flying endrins scrawled with insults and unfounded accusations as to the personal hygiene and mating habits of Bugmansson’s ancestors.’ A History of the Hop Wars by G.S. Rognorsson ‘There we are then,’ said Thunderer Dronk. ‘All for naught, as I’ve been saying from the start.’ ‘I might only have the one eye,’ said Bugmansson, ‘but that’s sufficient enough to notice what’s staring me right in the face. Look there.’ He pointed out a series of deep furrows in the pockmarked ground: tracks left behind by someone dragging several very heavy items. The trails wound up a shallow slope towards a cluster of thin, jagged rocks that curled upwards like the legs of a dead spider. It was hard to tell in the foul mist, but Tulsdottr thought she spied a black plume of smoke curling about the tips of those peaks. ‘Someone’s pinched what’s rightly mine,’ Bugmansson growled, slapping his great, broad-bladed battleaxe in one gauntleted fist. ‘And Ol’ Trustworthy here says it’s time to repay the insult.’ ‘By Grungni’s beard,’ moaned Bugmansson with the air of a grieving relative at a funeral. ‘Those savages, those ... wazzoks!’ The good news was that they had found the shipment. The bad news was that it was in the hands of a cadre of ironclad savages, who had cracked open the stout metal barrels emblazoned with a golden ‘B’ and were currently in the process of pouring the radiant amber liquid down their throats. Drunken peals of laughter split the air. These raiders, pale-skinned and bedecked in bloodstained plate armour, were armed to the teeth with cudgels, hammers and vicious-looking barbed mauls. They were big, all of them, their muscles corded from a lifetime of brutish violence. Metal totems marked with the symbol of a spiked portcullis had been thrust into place surrounding their makeshift encampment. A number of severed hands had been nailed to these banners and were slowly decomposing in the humid climate. Though clearly inebriated, this lot were clearly no strangers to murder. Fortunately, neither were Tulsdottr’s Thunderers. ‘Right,’ she said, ducking back behind the rock face, out of view. ‘Dronk, I want you up there behind those razorfronds with that mortar. Soon as I give you the signal, you open up. Everyone else? You’re with me. Soon as the first shell falls, we move. And watch your fire discipline; we came here to recover those crates, not—’ ‘Err, Sarge?’ said Graum, pointing behind her. She turned to see Jakkob Bugmansson draining a mugful of foaming ale drawn from his keg. Wiping his moustache with the back of one hand, he hefted his battleaxe and clambered up over the slope, charging down towards the camp and yelling at the top of his lungs. Jakkob Bugmansson becomes the seventeenth duardin to hold the title of Brewmaster General. His ascension has been met with excitement and despair in equal measure. Many traditionalist brewmasters abhor the upstart duardin’s attempts to refine his craft using the latest Barak-Nar aethermatic technology. These grumblings reached a (foamy) head just last wind-cycle, when one of Bugmansson’s still-ships exploded in the skyways above Barak-Zilfin, causing widespread damage and leading to over fifty civil grudge-suits against the Brewmaster General. Rumour has it that the stricken vessel was carrying a lighter-than-air beer that could be transformed into potable liquid through a simple aetherchemical reaction, thereby reducing the need for shipboard storage space by as much as two-thirds.’ The Sunrise Herald, Barak-Nar ‘Steal a Bugmansson’s property, will you?’ he roared as he went. ‘Slurp and spill it all over your ugly umgi faces? Come and answer for your crimes, you blaggards!’ ‘Son of a scuttler,’ muttered Tulsdottr. Then she cocked her aethershot rifle and charged in after the Brewmaster General. To their credit and despite being half-cut, the ironarmoured raiders reacted swiftly. Even as Jakkob Bugmansson came staggering and sloshing down the sulphurous slopes towards them, brandishing his glowing axe, they were scrambling for weapons and chain-draped shields. Tulsdottr heard the deep ‘gulp’ sound of Dronk’s mortar firing, and a second later two of the Chaos worshippers were hurled into the air on a plume of smoke and dirt. Then came the sharp crack of aethershot rifles as the Gunnery Sergeant’s half-dozen soldiers found their targets with customary accuracy. Solid-shot rounds hammered across the raiders’ thick armour, staggering them. Some went down howling, clutching gaping holes in their chests. Others came on fast, chanting grim battle-cants as they lumbered towards their assailants. One burly fiend tried to shatter Tulsdottr’s legs with a heavy hammer, but she dodged the wild blow and fired a salvo of shots that blasted the human’s arm off at the shoulder. Bugmansson had made a beeline for those ‘B’-marked containers as yet unopened, almost crashing straight into a helmed warrior armed with a mace and chain. The woman sent the chain whirling over her head, lashing it against the Brewmaster General’s armoured shoulder and narrowly avoiding his one good eye. ‘Get your grubby hands off my property!’ Bugmansson roared, his battleaxe whirling in his hands with blinding speed. Its white-hot edge sheared through the spiked mace’s chain. Before the woman could react, Ol’ Trustworthy’s haft came up to slam her between the eyes, dropping her to the floor like a fuel-dry frigate. The Thunderers’ opening volley had felled several raiders, but now the battle had devolved into a messy, close-quarters skirmish. Thunderer Laffi went down, face mask crumpled by the business end of a two-handed maul. Tulsdottr heard a muffled cry from Hadramsson and turned to see him being assailed by two foes, their vicious clubbing blows driving him to the floor. She took aim and shot one through the forehead, and then her rifle clicked dry. The Gunnery Sergeant was cursing and jamming another cartridge into the breech when a terrible keening cry split the air and a winged shadow fell across the encampment. Descending like a living comet came a leonine monstrosity with bat-like wings, racing towards Geffi Tulsdottr with a hungry leer upon its face. It would have got her too, had something not barrelled into her from the side just before the manticore struck, sending her sprawling. She turned to see Jakkob Bugmansson clambering to his feet, eyes locked upon the foul monster as it circled for another pass. The head of an Arkanautissue skyhook protruded from the beast’s matted flank, and there were scorch marks across its face that Tulsdottr recognised as fumigator burns. ‘There he is,’ the Brewmaster General growled, slapping the haft of his battleaxe into a gloved palm. ‘There’s the blighter that brought down my courier and caused me to lose three-dozen damned crates of vintage amber. Up you get, Gunny. Time to earn your pay.’ Geffi Tulsdottr leaned against the smoking carcass of the manticore and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Somehow, the bulky monster had managed to avoid crushing the precious remaining cargo crates in the culmination of its death dive and had instead squashed two or three of the barbarians into paste. The rest were dead or had fled. The Gunnery Sergeant winced as the wound in her leg began to throb; the talon had sunk deep, and out here in the wilds, infection could set in at any moment. She reached for the last pot of bindpaste on her belt. ‘Forget that filthy stuff,’ said Bugmansson, who had regained much of his natural cheer despite being splattered head to toe in gore and entrails. ‘Wet your With the assent of the High Council, the Brewmaster General of Barak-Nar has assembled a fleet of privateer argo-endrins to dispatch his latest blends across the airs, undercutting our own deliveries and generally being a right pain in the guzzugs. Whatever routes Bugmansson’s using, he’s getting his ale to port faster than we can pull a pint. Mark my words, if we don’t act soon it’ll be Bugmansson’s XXXXXX or nothing at every taphouse in the empire.’ Yorgi Drummons, Brewmaster General of Barak-Urbaz ‘The sky-fleets may run on aether-gold, but I won’t rest until each and every aeronaut from Barak-Nar to the Market City is fuelled by Bugmansson’s beer.’ Jakkob Bugmansson chompers with this instead. I guarantee it’ll put the shine back on your boots, my girl.’ He held out a tankard filled to the brim with sweet amber gold, with a light frothy head and a smell of fresh-cut hops. She took it eagerly. The five survivors of her platoon gathered about, and the Brewmaster General gave them all a measure of their own. As one, they clinked tankards and drained them dry. Cold, liquid wonder coursed down Tulsdottr’s throat, setting her tastebuds aglow with zesty, caramel flavours. It was firm but not too hoppy, sweet and light but with a kick like a recoiling aethercannon. Instantly, she felt all the fatigue and misery of the last ten-day slog evaporate into the ether. Even her leg wound ceased its throbbing drumbeat and merely tingled pleasantly. She wiped her mouth with the back of a gloved fist and stared at the grinning Brewmaster General, whose one good eye winked in delight. ‘Not bad, eh?’ ‘By all the gold in the sky,’ she stammered. ‘What is this stuff?’ ’It’s an old Bugmansson blend,’ said the Brewmaster. ‘Of that I’m as sure as my beard is greying. But not one that’s been supped upon for a good few centuries. On my orders, one of my lads went digging in this benighted place, hearing as he had some interesting rumours about sunken duardin ruins. That which you’ve just partaken of was all that was left of an ancient distillery built by my kin in better times, deep beneath some hellhole called the Skullpikes. The aforementioned acquaintance tried to extract it by airship, which was brave but ill-advised. In any case, this little lot is destined for my brewing labs. Mayhap we can work out the secrets my ancestors used to create such a glorious elixir.’ He nodded to the small pile of containers, of which only two remained intact. ‘We’ve talked payment, and I’m of the sort that always delivers what’s owed. But I think you’ve earned yourselves a bonus. Tell me, how’d you feel about taking one of those there kegs for yourselves once we’re out of this midden pit?’ The Thunderers stared at one another like awestruck beardlings. ‘What do you say?’ Bugmansson said. ‘Would that make up for your hardships, lads and lassies?’ ‘Aye, Brewmaster!’ came a chorus of eager replies, and none of them louder than that of Geffi Tulsdottr.