Tales of the Old World

by Marc Gascoigne

  “There’s loads of them,” Florin cried as, with a pirouette worthy of an acrobat, he twisted to simultaneously lop the arm off one opponent and the head from another. “Try to see where the heads are going.”

  He turned and stabbed at something behind Lorenzo’s bowed back. The boat reared alarmingly, then splashed back down. A spray of cold brine dashed across the back of Lorenzo’s neck, followed by a spray of hot blood. He tried to ignore both as the boat bucked beneath him.

  “We’ll need the heads,” Florin grunted as he punched the steel guard of one cutlass into a serpentine snout and hacked down on another. “To collect the full bounty.”

  Lorenzo cursed this fresh insanity, and tried not to think about what would happen if the boat was flipped and the lanterns extinguished.

  But already the ambushers seemed to be retreating. Florin prised his cutlass from the skull of his last victim and looked around him, confusion furrowing his blood-spattered brow.

  “They’re going,” he decided as Lorenzo kicked another body into the water.

  “Yes. Let’s join them.”

  “Good idea. We’ll have to be quick though. Come on, start rowing. That one’s wounded, so we should be able to follow it.”

  Florin dropped a cutlass into the bloodied bilge that slopped around his boots, leant over the prow, and lifted a lantern overhead.

  “Come on, they’re getting away,” he complained.

  Lorenzo didn’t have the energy to argue. Instead he threw his meagre weight behind the oars and, praying that Manann would continue to offer his traditional protection to lunatics, he rowed.

  Had the survivor not been so badly wounded, Florin and Lorenzo would never have kept up with it. Every part of the creature, from the smoothly scaled arrow of its head to the powerful rudder of its tail, was built for speed in the water.

  What hampered it were its injuries, and they were horrific. A cutlass stroke had sliced open its back, so that as it moved the severed muscles slipped and tore over the chipped ribcage beneath. Its left arm was also gone, lopped off at the shoulder by a butcher’s blow that had been aimed at its head.

  A warm-blooded creature would surely have succumbed to the shock and pain of these twin mutilations, but not this one. As its pursuers closed in it struggled on, ignoring the agony that sang through its nerves as easily as it ignored the pieces of flotsam that churned beneath its remaining limbs.

  “Slow down a bit,” Florin hissed, waving his hand at Lorenzo.

  “Slow down?” the older man repeated, surprised.

  “We’re getting too close,” Florin whispered, as if afraid that their quarry could understand. If it did it gave no sign. The serpentine shape of its bleeding body writhed through the black water ahead, its head tilted to one side as it crawled lopsidedly through the rotting brine. As Florin watched a flash of reflected lamp light glittered in one of its eyes. It reminded him of the gold at the bottom of a prospector’s pan.

  “It’s turning right,” Florin hissed as the thing rolled to one side and made its way through a row of pilings. Lorenzo heaved on the oars and followed it. Florin helped him, pushing the boat away from one of the timber columns before looking back to the rippled water of their quarry’s track.

  For one heart-stopping moment he thought that he’d lost it. Then he saw that the only thing he’d lost was the churn of water. The lizard itself had crawled out onto a tumble of silt-choked debris. The spit of rubble sloped gradually up from the water and at the top of it, fanged with broken masonry, the mouth of a tunnel yawned hungrily open.

  Florin grinned as he watched the wounded lizard crawl into the entrance. He was still grinning as he turned back to Lorenzo, who was concentrating on shepherding the boat between a fallen piling and a floating island of refuse.

  “What did I tell you?” Florin exulted. “We’ve got them. See over there!” He lifted the lantern up so that the flickering yellow light leapt after the retreating lizard. “See all those claw marks on the silt outside the hole? This is where they live, alright. Here, pass me the boathook and row us up to it. I’ll find a place to land.”

  Lorenzo muttered as he pulled on the oars, and the battered boat nosed its way to the mess that served the lizards as a pier. Florin squinted at the spill of detritus. He tried a couple of places before finally chopping the boathook down into a fallen pile and fastening the boat to it.

  “Right then,” he said, turning to Lorenzo and lifting a lantern to light his face. “Let’s reload the crossbows, get in there.”

  “Alright.” Lorenzo shrugged, and warily eyed the dark maw of the tunnel as he winched back one of the crossbows. “Alright, let’s finish them. We don’t have time to sell the tavern now anyway.”

  Florin nodded distractedly. He had already armed his bow, checked his cutlasses were loose in their sheaths, and turned up the wick on his lantern. He waited for Lorenzo to do the same then bounded out of the boat and scrabbled up the crumbling slope towards the cave.

  He paused at the edge of it, lantern held in one hand and crossbow in the other. When he heard Lorenzo at his back he passed the bow back and drew his cutlass instead. Lorenzo reluctantly extinguished his own lantern and, as the darkness drew tighter about them, he slung one crossbow over his shoulder and held the other at the ready.

  Thus armed the two men stepped into the tunnel.

  After the stink of the rotting world beneath the wharf, the still air within these burrowed walls was almost refreshing. So was the silence. There was no drip of water or scrape of driftwood or rumble of wagons passing overhead. Apart from the smear of blood along the floor it might have been as empty as a tomb.

  They had gone perhaps thirty paces when Lorenzo started to wonder why the tunnel was so big. The lizards themselves had been no bigger than a man, and from what he had seen of them he guessed that they walked on all fours, or perhaps stooped over in orcish fashion.

  So why, he wondered, was the ceiling so high? It was maybe ten feet in all, and the light of the lantern barely touched it. All that Lorenzo could see was that it was covered with the regular claw marks of its excavation.

  Suddenly Lorenzo was seized with a terrible suspicion. He swallowed nervously, tapped Florin on the shoulder and leant forward to whisper into his ear.

  “Why is this place so big?” he asked, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling.

  Florin shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe they like the ventilation.”

  “I thought you said they liked humidity.”

  “Maybe they like both.”

  “How,” Lorenzo said, forgetting to whisper, “can they like both?”

  “Look,” said Florin, “what’s that up ahead?”

  He lifted his lantern and, with his cutlass held as still as a viper about to strike, he edged forward. Lorenzo was about to continue the discussion when he realised that there was something up ahead after all. It sparkled on the floor of the tunnel, flecks of lantern light catching metallic edges.

  “Treasure,” the two men told each other in perfect harmony. Then they were hurrying forward, the oddities of lizardine architecture forgotten in the face of the creatures’ fabled wealth.

  But when they reached the treasure it was not the sort they had hoped for. Florin knelt down to examine their find.

  “Eggs.” He spat the word and rolled one of the things out of the muddy hollow that served as its nest. It was heavy, although not heavy enough to be gold, and the pattern that sparkled so seductively was no more precious than a dragonfly’s scales.

  “Are you sure they aren’t something else?” Lorenzo asked with an air of unaccustomed optimism.

  “I’m sure. Remember that idiot who brought an egg back on the Destrier? That was the same as these.”

  Lorenzo looked down at the nest, disappointment creasing the satchel of his face.

  “I remember. I remember the captain throwing it overboard too. But I don’t remember there being more than one.”

  Florin sighed, his hopes of riches dashed.
“Maybe the first one hatched and laid the rest. Look at the size of them. Bet it made their eyes water, hey?”

  Lorenzo just shook his head.

  “At least we should get a bounty for them,” Florin consoled him. “Let’s finish off the escapee first, though. I wouldn’t mind keeping his head as a trophy.”

  He got back to his feet, lifted the lantern, and continued along the bloody trail of his quarry. Lorenzo followed him, pausing only to stamp down on one of the eggs.

  The crunch was surprisingly loud in the confined space.

  But what was even louder was the answering howl of agony that reverberated out of the darkness ahead.

  “Damn,” said Florin, and for once Lorenzo was in total agreement. The roar that even now echoed around them bore little relation to the wounded thing they had chased into this pit. It didn’t sound hurt so much as enraged. It also sounded big.

  “Let’s go back,” said Lorenzo, edging nervously back between the eggs. This time he was careful not to stand on any of them.

  “Listen,” Florin said. “Footsteps.”

  Lorenzo listened. He felt rather than heard the beat of footsteps that were drumming through the hard-packed earth. As they drew nearer he licked his lips and tried to swallow.

  “Here it comes,” Florin said. He put his lantern down and reached for the bow Lorenzo passed him. The two men aimed at the unknown, the hairs on the back of their necks rising as another roar split the air and the thing emerged from the darkness.

  At first it was no more than a darker patch in the darkness beyond. Then it was a field of glittering stars as lamplight caught the edges of its scales. And then it was upon them.

  Neither man had seen its like before. Even in their memories the saurian warriors of Lustria had never grown so big. The thing that thundered towards them was actually stooped beneath the high ceiling, the boulder-sized muscles of its forearms rippling as it reached out towards them. But if the talons were terrifying, the crocodilian slab of its head was worse. It leered down at them, a serpentine mask of glistening fangs and murderous rage.

  For a split second the two men stared at the horror, mesmerised by the ferocity of its charge. Then, a second before the daggers of its talons reached them, they fired.

  The bowstrings hummed as the two bolts blurred towards their target. The first struck the scales that rippled down its belly and bounced off as harmlessly as hail. But the second, which both men later swore they had fired, found a softer target in the vicious slit of the monster’s eye.

  It screamed as it lunged to one side, and both men smelt the rotten meat stink of its breath. Florin snatched up the lantern as they leapt away from the thrashing claws and scurried back up the tunnel.

  “Reload,” he told Lorenzo as a fist the size of a small pig closed around the arrow that was imbedded in the lizard’s eye. It plucked it out with a horrible pop that was lost beneath a fresh scream of agony. Then it turned its remaining eye on the two intruders.

  “Duck,” Lorenzo said and, as the beast lowered its head for a fresh charge, he fired again.

  He almost hit his target. Almost. But this time the beast whipped its head aside at the last moment, and the steel-tipped bolt bounced harmlessly off the top of its head.

  Lorenzo tried to reload, but Florin knew it was too late. As his comrade fumbled with the bow the beast vaulted over the nest of eggs and hurled itself towards them.

  Florin stopped thinking. Instead he let instincts take over. Even as the great lizard fell upon him he dropped his cutlass, slipped a thin stiletto from his boot, and leapt forward to meet it.

  He ignored the pain of the talons that cut through his flesh to slide across the ribs beneath. He ignored the hot stink of its breath as its jaws snapped shut an inch beside his head. He even ignored the terror of its bulk, and the roll of the impossibly strong muscles beneath the impossibly thick hide.

  He ignored everything apart from the slit of the beast’s remaining eye.

  As the lizard wrapped its forearms around him for a final embrace, Florin used its knee as a toe-hold and sprang upwards, twisting his body as taut as a bow before its release. There was only one chance, he knew. Only one roll of the dice.

  But as soon as he struck, he knew that it would be enough.

  The stiletto hit the serpentine eye dead centre, severing the black pupil and punching through the jelly beneath. A cutlass blow would have ended there, bouncing off the skull. But the stiletto was thin enough to follow the optical nerve through the tunnel of bone and into the brain.

  The lizard didn’t even have time to scream as the splinter of steel ended its life. It just swayed for a last, dying heartbeat, then collapsed forward as dead as a falling tree.

  There was a boom as the massive carcass hit the tunnel floor, and a sprinkle of falling earth from the ceiling above.

  Lorenzo, who couldn’t quite believe he was still alive, rushed forward to wrestle Florin’s body out from beneath the carcass.

  “Are you alright?” he asked, dragging him clear.

  Florin coughed and spat out a mouthful of blood. “Apart from all the broken bones, you mean?”

  “Don’t worry about them,” Lorenzo reassured him. “They’re a small price to pay for getting the job done. See, I told you it was a good idea to track them down here.”

  Florin opened his mouth to argue. But before he could, the pain, the blood loss, and the knowledge that he was safe conspired to send him into grateful oblivion.

  “Well I’ll say this for young d’Artaud,” said Baron Lafayette as he examined the colour of his claret. “He’s certainly resourceful.”

  Count Griston, who sat across the dining table from his host, shrugged his half-hearted agreement. It was another one of their dinner parties, and he was wondering if Lafayette would be able to top the vin et bile d’aigle and os de poisson gelles he had served last month.

  “Ah yes, d’Artaud. I forgot about him. Didn’t he help you out with some business in the docks, Harbour Master?”

  The Harbour Master, who had been enjoying the way that the claret complemented the mixed gastropods of the entree, nodded.

  “Yes, there was something he helped me with. We had some problems with a particularly vicious gang on the Dragon Wharf. D’Artaud did a bit of scouting and discovered their lair.”

  Lafayette’s mouth dropped in surprise, and he exchanged a glance with his wife. But before he could say anything she kicked him neatly on the shin.

  “Yes, crime around the docks is expensive.” Griston seized upon the subject with a real enthusiasm. “In fact, Harbour Master, only last week I lost a substantial amount of stock. Very substantial. Perhaps when you come to calculating next month’s docking fees.”

  “Please, count.” The Harbour Master held up his hands. “Let us not ruin this fine meal with talk of business. And anyway, docking fees aren’t related to any lapses in warehouse security.”

  “As you say,” Griston nodded. “Now is not the place to talk about how lapses in warehouse security weren’t to blame for my loss.”

  Lafayette saw the Harbour Master’s displeasure, and on another occasion he would have happily left Griston to make it worse. Tonight, though, he didn’t have the patience.

  “Well, if we have all finished,” he said, looking around the table and then snapping his fingers for the servants. They cleared the table with a quiet efficiency that wouldn’t have shamed a gun crew, then scurried away to fetch the main course.

  Griston, his wrangle with the Harbour Master temporarily forgotten, watched them go.

  “What is the main course this evening, Lafayette?” he asked. “Pork again?”

  Lafayette smiled at the insult, rocked back on his chair, and cracked his knuckles.

  “To be honest, Griston,” he lied, “I can’t remember. I left it to chef to decide on the menu. But look, here it comes now.”

  The aroma that preceded the silver platter was mouth watering. It was spicy enough to conjure up thoughts of Araby
, although not too spicy to mask the scent of roast meat and a hint of something citric.

  The servants set the platter down on the table, so that the assembled diners could see their anticipation reflected back from the silver dome of the lid. The butler placed a silk-gloved hand on the handle on top of it, and looked at his master.

  Lafayette waited, drawing out the moment for another delicious second, then gave the nod.

  With a practiced flourish the flunky lifted the silver dome off the platter beneath, then stepped back so that the diners could savour the sight of the dish. When the sweet-smelling steam had cleared the guests did just that, staring at the creation before them with three identical expressions of shock.

  Lafayette and his wife exchanged a glance of absolute triumph.

  “Ah,” said Lafayette with a carefully affected nonchalance. “One of chef’s foreign dishes.”

  Griston looked at his host then back to the platter before him. The carved meat oozed succulence, and it was so white as to be almost translucent. But it was the appearance of the dish that really drew the eye.

  “That head,” he couldn’t help asking. “Is it real?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Lafayette as the servants began to serve his guests. “I always insist on having the head sent up with the meat. You can always tell the freshness of the animal by the gold of its eyeballs. See how they shine even after having been roasted?”

  “Yes,” said Griston miserably. He tasted a forkful of the meat, and his misery deepened. It was superb. Unique.

  But the Harbour Master had other concerns.

  “Where did you get that thing?” he asked, staring at the scaled head with something approaching panic.

  Lafayette shifted uncomfortably until his wife saved him.

  “I couldn’t possibly reveal my sources,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I’m just glad that Monsieur d’Artaud got rid of all those thieves at the dock, aren’t you? They might have stolen it from our importer.”

  The Harbour Master met her gaze, understanding. Then he shrugged, and tasted a sliver of the white flesh. It melted on his tongue.