Tales of the Old World

by Marc Gascoigne

  From somewhere out of sight, a familiar voice rose to break the deathly stillness, and echoed down the tunnel. “Come in, Heidel, I’ve been expecting you. And bring your friend.” It finished with a burst of uncontrollable laughter.

  All hope of surprise was gone, if they ever had it, and Heidel felt bitter defeat. Wearily he and Mendelsohn stumbled through into the shadowy mausoleum, arms limply hanging by their sides.

  “You’ve come to witness my triumph, of course. Welcome, Herr Heidel, to the Bechafen catacombs.” Baron von Kleist stepped into the flickering torchlight towards the arch. A few paces behind him, Sassen loitered more shyly. Swathed in a black robe, the baron appeared tall and thin to Heidel, much like a cadaver himself. The torches that lit the mausoleum threw great shadows over his body. His skin seemed to be pulled too tightly over his head, and his eyes and mouth seemed to disappear into gaping blackness. His face seemed transformed into a skull. The baron laughed again.

  “Witness my work: from here Bechafen shall fall! Here I shall open the doorway between life and death. I will conquer death, vanquish nature, and these pitiful bones will rise once more!” The baron turned slowly around in a circle and raised his arms up in triumph. He was looking at all the bones and corpses as if they were all the riches of the world; as if, instead of lifeless, rotting bodies, they were gems inlaid with silver and gold.

  Heidel’s face twisted in fury. “This is blasphemy, infernal sorcerer! And for that you will pay! Sigmar damn you!”

  “Why such harsh words, witch hunter? In condemning me you are only damning yourself. It was you, after all, who was responsible for the return of the key to that doorway between.” The baron dangled the pendant before him, taunting the witch hunter. “My so-called ‘guards’ ran away with it. So I turned to an employee of an entirely different kind. I thank you for its safe return.”

  Von Kleist gave a mocking half-bow. Behind the baron, Sassen gave a strange little high pitched laugh. Heidel gripped the hilt of his sword in anger. He yearned to swoop upon the little man and repay him for his betrayal. Heidel could feel Mendelsohn tense and tremble in fury beside him.

  “You have been corrupted, necromancer, and for that you will be sent screaming to the abyss,” Mendelsohn stated simply, as if he was passing sentence. For a moment the baron was taken aback by the confidence in the witch hunter’s voice.

  But then von Kleist smiled. “And what of this?” he asked as he reached up and implanted the brilliant blue gem of the pendant into the top of the stone archway. A harsh light arced from the gem, sulphur-bright, searing away the shadows of the cavern. A rank smell, as if of burning metal, filled the stale air. Slowly the entire floor seemed to move; the sea of bones swelled into waves. A jaundiced murmuring rose discordantly on the air—and the bones began to move!

  Heidel felt unhinged, delirious at the sight, as ages-dead bones ordered themselves: as thighs re-attached themselves to hips, as jaws began chatter, as mottled arms and withered skulls rejoined their bodies. The cavern echoed with the hideous scraping of bones as they slid, as if sentient, in search of the right joint, the correct aperture, with which to connect. The horrendous reek of death choked the air as the entire collection of corpses and body parts shifted and roiled around each other. To Heidel it seemed a hallucination, yet he knew its awful reality. This was no time for dreaming; they must act, or they would die here.

  The witch hunters moved with lightning speed. They leaped high and scrambled over moving skeletons, slashing out with their rapiers at claws which tried to grasp them. Heidel kicked at cadaverous hands, pushed himself further forward using skulls as hand-holds, ribs as footholds. He struggled to balance himself on the shifting sea of bones beneath his feet, which seemed to lurch ten feet one way, then ten feet another. He felt nails begin scratch at him, jaws bite. More than once he felt sharp pain and his blood flow.

  Heidel heard two explosions in swift succession, and watched Sassen fall howling, his face ghastly white, two holes blasted in his chest. He glanced around wildly, but could not see Mendelsohn. The witch hunter had only moments before he would be drowned in a sea of gnashing corpses. Desperately he tried to reach the baron, slashing frantically as he tried to carve a path through the shifting bones.

  Baron von Kleist was prepared. Beneath his breath he muttered something arcane and guttural. From his suddenly outstretched hand a ball of livid red flame shot towards Heidel, who ducked uselessly as searing fire wrapped itself around his body. Someone screamed agonisingly, a wail which rose and rose until Heidel wished that whoever it was would stop. Then, as it finally died out, the witch hunter realised that he, Heidel, had been the one screaming. He raised his head to see another fireball speeding from the baron’s hand. The fire embraced him again; his agonised wail broke unbidden from him once more. As the pain died he saw, from the corner of his eye, Mendelsohn, who had scrambled rapidly over the rising bones and reached the arch. The other witch hunter stood behind the baron, arm raised with a stone in hand.

  No, Heidel screamed inside, mouth barely able to form the words. Mendelsohn! You’re facing the wrong way…

  Mendelsohn faced not towards the baron, but towards the arch. The stone came down, with all the force that Mendelsohn could muster in his body—directly onto the blue gem of the pendant set into the arch. A third vast fireball exploded around the hellish cavern, but this time the fire did not touch Heidel. This fire was white and searing, and it flowed from the gem in the archway like a river of flame. Flame that engulfed Mendelsohn and tossed the baron aside with its force.

  Around Heidel the bones shuddered, as if in memory of agonising pain. Then they collapsed like puppets with their strings severed.

  With renewed vigour, Heidel leaped forward and landed before the baron, who was struggling onto his hands and knees amidst the scorched cadavers. Heidel kicked out and von Kleist was flung backwards. The baron scrabbled, belly exposed, hands desperately searching for purchase on the carpet of bones. The witch hunter thrust downwards, feeling the sword pierce vital organs, slip between bones.

  A look of shock crossed the baron’s face. “No!” he howled. “This cannot be!”

  “Know this, necromancer!” Heidel cried. “I am a witch hunter. I will seek out evil wherever it raises its misshapen head, and I will wipe its pestilence from this world. You are leprous and corrupt. Return to the abyss from whence you came.”

  When his words finished, the baron was dead.

  Heidel rushed over to Mendelsohn’s side, but was too late. In destroying the pendant, the flamboyant witch hunter had destroyed himself.

  Heidel did not stay long. He muttered a few words under his breath, a prayer of sorts:

  “What is it to be a witch hunter?

  To toil endlessly against the dark.

  What then will be our reward?

  We ask for none and none is received.

  When can ever we stop?

  When the cold grave eternal calls us to rest.”

  Heidel stood and turned to leave. But he stopped himself, bent down and picked up a metal object from the floor. It was an ornately carved pistol, the silver a little blackened with soot. He turned it over in his hand. It was heavy, yet fit well in his palm.

  Well weighted, he said to himself. I think I will learn to use this, he said. Yes, I think I will. Then he placed it beneath his belt.

  I might not buy a silk shirt though.

  In his head he heard Mendelsohn’s voice. Humour is one of the ways to fight the darkness, it said.

  Heidel smiled briefly and began the long walk back to the surface of the town.

  BIRTH OF A LEGEND

  Gav Thorpe

  “Grungni’s beard, I wish they’d quieten down! I’ve got one hell of a hangover!” King Kurgan spat derisively at the burly greenskin watching over them.

  The four dwarfs were tied to stakes, their hands and ankles bound with crude rope. A huge bonfire raged not far off and the orcs were celebrating their victory. The air was filled wit
h the sound of beating drums and the woods reverberated with the constant pounding. As the night passed, they broke open huge barrels of their foul intoxicating brew to wash down the hunks of charred dwarf flesh they had eaten earlier. The flames of the fire leapt higher and higher and the orcs shouted louder and louder.

  Kurgan’s blood boiled. He strained at his bonds with all his strength. It was to no avail; the knots remained as tight as ever. He was condemned to look on despondently while the foul creatures made a banquet of his household. Over to his left, Snorri slumped semi-conscious against his pole. The others, Borris and Thurgan, seemed similarly dazed. The king’s gruff voice cut across the laughter and shouts of the orcs.

  “Snorri! Hey, Snorri! A curse upon us for being captured rather than killed, wouldn’t you say?”

  The venerable advisor groaned and looked up at his king, one eye screwed shut with pain, the lids stuck together with congealed blood from a cut on his brow.

  “Aye, a pox on the green devils for not ending it honourably, sire. I’ll see them all rotting in hell ’fore I’m for the pot! Mark my words!”

  Despite their predicament, Kurgan was heartened by Snorri’s defiant words and he grinned to himself. Out beyond the fire he could see the orcs smashing open the barrel of ale he had been taking with him to his cousin in the Grey Mountains. A tear glistened in Kurgan’s eye as he thought of that fine brew, made over five hundred years ago and matured in oak casks stored in Karak Eight Peaks, wasted in stunted orc throats. What he had paid for that small keg could have trained and equipped an army for a month. The potent ale had seemed like a good investment at the time, but when the orcs had poured from their hiding places yelling their shrieking war cries, he had realised that perhaps the money should have been spent on an army after all.

  Kurgan pushed aside thoughts of ale and studied the orc camp, trying to figure out a plan of escape. Most of the orcs—he wasn’t sure how many there were—sat in small groups, dicing, squabbling or just sprawling, bloated. The smaller goblins scurried to and fro, fetching and carrying for their bigger cousins, who would occasionally kick or punch one of them for raucous entertainment. A particularly inventive black orc used his spear to elicit a yelping noise which the orcs found amusing.

  Kurgan could see that most of the dwarfs’ stolen weapons, armour and treasure was piled all over the camp, with no plan or order. In one part of the clearing, Kurgan’s mighty field tent had been crudely erected for the orc leader, although the sides of the massive marquee had not been unfurled. Inside, gold and gems were piled high, but Kurgan was looking for the magical weapons and armour that had been stripped from him and his Longbeard retainers. Across the darkness Kurgan could make out the massive warlord, sitting on a fur-backed throne at one end of the tent while his drinking cronies squatted around him. A mass of glittering treasure was spilled around them. They laughed heartily at some brutal jest. Perhaps the warlord felt Kurgan’s gaze lingering on him, for the orc slowly turned his heavy head to fix the dwarf king with evil red eyes. That malevolent glance fastened Kurgan to the wooden stake as surely as the ropes which bound him. For a short moment he stopped struggling.

  Kurgan regained his composure, scowling at the dark savage with what he hoped was his most frightening glare. The warlord backhanded one of his subordinates for some misdemeanour, sending the orc sprawling in a spray of teeth. The huge brute stood up abruptly, shouting something to his subordinates, his bosses. He grabbed a passing goblin and tossed the unfortunate creature into the blazing campfire. As the warlord’s comrades laughed at this jest, the huge orc began stomping towards Kurgan. His glowing eyes never left the dwarf for a moment. The milling throng of orcs and goblins parted effortlessly before the stride of the mighty warlord, closing in behind their leader as he marched towards his most prized captives.

  The orc warlord was dressed in heavy black mail and studded plates, and even Kurgan found himself thinking that he presented a fearsome sight. At his belt hung a string of grisly trophies: severed heads, hands, feet and ears dangled from a chain looped around a thick leather strap. The warlord’s skin was dark green in colour, almost black, and slab-like muscles rippled beneath the surface. The orc’s bucket-jawed head thrust forward from between two chain-bedecked shoulder pads, his red eyes burning with fierce power. They were pinpoints of pure hatred, smouldering with a barely-repressed violence that made Kurgan tremble with fearful anticipation. Switching his gaze before he betrayed any weakness to the advancing orc, he looked at the huge column of smoke pouring into the sky, lifting burning fragments of his comrades’ clothes into the chill night air.

  Across the woods, other eyes had seen the smoke. Now they moved silently through the forest towards its source.

  Ansgar turned to the youth leading the hunting party and asked the question which had been nagging him.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea? We’ve got no clue as to what’s out there!”

  The burly young man simply turned to him and winked, before pressing forward along the rough track. Ansgar sighed and beckoned the rest of the party to follow, swapping worried glances with a couple of the older members, veterans of no few battles. Eginolf passed by and Ansgar fell into step with his twin brother.

  “I don’t like this at all, Eginolf. He’s a fine lad, but he’s not ready for something like this. Headstrong, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t,” came the grunted reply.

  Ansgar shrugged and padded along the game trail in silence, his hand holding his sword to his thigh to stop it making any noise. The hunting party included warriors of all ages, from veterans in their thirties like Eginolf and himself, to seasoned warriors in their early twenties and untried boys who had seen only a dozen summers.

  Their leader, perhaps surprisingly, fell nearer that end of the scale. The youth was a fine-looking young man. Only fifteen, he was already over six feet tall and his well-muscled body put any man to shame. It wasn’t only his physical prowess that impressed Ansgar, though. The hunt lord was clever and canny, with an experience of hunting and battle that belied his age. The lad had a toughness inside too, a resolute stubbornness to overcome any problem.

  Ansgar fondly recalled a time, maybe five years ago, when a party had gone to the river to catch fish. The group had been confronted by a massive bear, there for the same purpose. Everybody else had frozen, but the young lord had strode forward, hands on hips, until he was a few paces from the huge beast. “These are our waters, fish somewhere else!” he stated in a level voice. Ansgar had expected the bear to swipe the boy’s head off, but instead it had looked at the youngster’s unwavering stare and had turned and lumbered into the woods without a growl.

  From that day, the young lord had become known as Steel-eye, and his reputation had done nothing but grow. He was a good leader, generous to those who served him well, swift to act against the enemies of the tribe. He was very much like his father and when that great man was eventually ushered into the halls of the dead, his successor would bring a time of equal prosperity. But that was for the future. All that mattered now was finding out who was trespassing on their lands.

  The warriors of the hunting band were dressed for the cold night, their brightly patterned woollen breeches and fur-lined leather jerkins protecting them from the biting north wind. Most of the men wore their hair in one or two long braids down their back, woven with bright ribbons and beads to match their chequered leggings.

  As the lord’s hunting party, they were equipped with the finest weapons forged from sturdy metal mined in the south-eastern foothills. Each of the men also had a short hunting bow, carved from the horns of mountain cattle. The warriors of the tribe were taught how to use the bows from the time they were able to lift one, and even in the darkest night they rarely missed their mark. Ansgar was proud to carry the champion’s bow, edged with gold and silver thread, which he had won four times in the last six years. Whatever his words of caution, Ansgar was as eager for a fight as any of them, looking forward to the pro
mise of more glory in battle. If there was some fighting to be done this night, he would be ready for it.

  The party moved on in silence, the forest around them in almost total darkness as the cloudy sky obscured the twin moons. Now that they had dropped into the dale the distant flicker of fire could no longer be seen, but the scouts had taken their bearings well and they were headed almost straight to the north to investigate the intrusion. Soon they would find out just who it was who thought they could camp within their borders.

  By the time the warlord was stood in front of his dwarf captives, most of his warriors were behind him. His head cocked to one side with concentration, the large orc looked at each of them in turn, assessing their remaining strength. Noticing Snorri’s injury, the massive black orc’s mouth twisted in a cruel smile and he stepped forward for a closer look.

  It was just the opportunity Snorri had been waiting for. Lashing forward with his head, the old dwarf delivered a smashing butt to the bridge of the orc’s nose, sending a spatter of green blood spilling through the night air. The mumbling throng behind him fell silent except for a few gurgling gasps of horror and the clatter of the odd weapon or cup dropped in stunned disbelief. As the chieftain shook his head to clear the dizziness, one of his lieutenants stepped forward, a bared scimitar lifted above his head. His intent was clear. Angrily, the chieftain pushed the orc back into the mob and grinned evilly at Snorri. Wiping away the mixture of blood and mucus dripping down his long top lip with the back of his gnarled, scarred hand, the battle-hardened orc chuckled. “I likes dis wun—’e’s gorra lorra spirit, hur hur!”

  When the stunned silence continued, the warlord slowly turned on his heel to glare at his warriors. Under his hostile gaze, the mob broke into howls of sycophantic laughter. Satisfied with this display, their leader turned back to the dwarfs, his attention now firmly fixed on Kurgan.