Tales of the Old World

by Marc Gascoigne

  “Buried alive!” Johan gasped, thrashing out wildly about him in the inky blackness. In every direction he hit wood almost immediately. “Oh No Oh No Oh No!” he shrieked, before lying very still, like a desperate and cornered beast. “Think, Anstein, think!” he muttered, teeth chattering uncontrollably. A terrible fear gnawed at his innards, threatening to return the blind panic which had all but overwhelmed him a moment ago.

  Johan recapped the situation aloud, in a vain attempt to calm his pounding heart. “The monster—that’s why there were no fish in the lagoon. That’s what the strange lizardy men were making offerings to.” Johan stopped for a moment as a violent trembling fit seized his frame. It passed.

  “We almost reached the beach, then it was upon us,” Johan whispered slowly to himself, as the recollection of the dread fanged monstrosity which had assaulted their tiny boat flooded back into his memory.

  He remembered it roaring in insensate fury. He remembered its tiny, bestial eyes, staring fixedly at him from a cart-sized head atop a mast-high neck. He remembered the water streaming in frothy torrents from its crustacean-encrusted back. Johan remembered Jiriki loosing arrow after arrow at the beast. He smiled as he remembered Grimcrag’s axe, a whistling arc of gold and red in the bright sunlight. He remembered the barbarian’s war cry as the Reaver struck again and again with his wicked longsword. He remembered the moment when the beast began to know fear. He even recalled his own blade—a cold sliver of silver pricking at the gargantuan monster’s side.

  Johan gulped in the darkness of his tomb as he recalled what must have been seen as the moment of his own death. Tears welled in his eyes, tears of sadness and frustration. At least he would be remembered as a hero, killed fighting a great beast. And they had slain it, of that he had no doubt at all.

  Even buried alive, on a far distant isle, for that he surely was, Johan allowed himself a grim smile as he remembered the sea monster’s death throes. Bleeding from a hundred or more wounds, it had threshed the water to a pinky red froth. Its cries had echoed around the cove over which it must have been undisputed lord for many years.

  And Johan remembered its massive tail swinging round as if time had slowed, clearing the water like a fifty-foot yard arm. The others had instinctively ducked just in time, but Johan could clearly see in his mind’s eye that he, alone, had not. He could remember a flash of pain and a great many stars, then nothing more, but now he nursed the bump on his head and silently wept salty tears of pain, fear and frustration. Buried alive! Johan desperately hoped he had been given a good send off at least…

  Mad, blind panic swept over Johan again, carrying him like a broken twig before a mountain river in flood. He screamed, he yelled, he cried insanities at the darkness as he hammered and clawed weakly at his coffin lid for what seemed like hours.

  Eventually he was exhausted, and lay panting in the darkness. It was no good. He was surely doomed to die, probably of asphyxiation when the air in the foetid hole ran out.

  Johan slumped, beaten and dispirited in the cool blackness. He was ready, at last, to die. As one of Grunsonn’s Marauders.

  On the beach, the Marauders sat around a small fire and devoured chunks of half-cooked sea monster with gusto, as the eventful day drew to a close. On the distant horizon, the sun sank beneath the waves, its angry red orb extinguished for another day.

  “Marooned in the middle of nowhere!” Jiriki muttered, picking delicately at a tender morsel.

  Grimcrag stared wistfully out to sea, hot fat running down his bearded chin. “Reckon that was as good a fight as any I’ve had for a while—thought it had us fer a moment or two.”

  “Nah!” spat the barbarian through stringy haunch, black eyes gleaming in the firelight. “Ve voss just Veak, dat’s all, uddervise ve’re killink it pretty damm Qvick, ja?!”

  “S’pose so,” Grimcrag answered after a moment’s chewing, before shaking his shaggy head as if to clear cobwebs away. “Eeh, though, we’re gettin’ all maudlin and no mistake, aren’t we?” The dwarf’s eyebrows furrowed and he gestured with stubby fingers at the feast which lay before them. “Look at this lot, ’nough to keep us going for weeks.” He turned to the others and smiled his broken-toothed, bearded grin. “S’not all that bad, is it lads? Old Grimcrag saw you right in the end.”

  Jiriki threw back his head and laughed sarcastically. The silvery note rang clear across the cove. He wagged a slender finger reproachfully. “Oh yes, Grimcrag, everything’s just fine!” The elf looked around them pointedly. “Here we are, stuck in the middle of nowhere, with no boat, no hope of rescue, not even a map!” It wasn’t often that the elf betrayed much emotion at all.

  At this sudden outburst Keanu and Grimcrag sat open-mouthed, fat and saliva dribbling from their chins in equal measure. Jiriki sighed and kicked languidly at the sand before looking up and smiling sadly. “Oh what’s the use, we’re stuck here!” Looking stern, the elf continued in an admonishing tone. “Bear in mind though, Grimcrag, it’s no use trying that ‘I’m your caring father’ routine with us anymore, you sneaky old miscreant, we’ve known you far too long for any of that nonsense to work—we’re not young Anstein, you know.”

  At the mention of Johan, the conversation ground to a halt. Keanu reached a ham-sized fist into the fire and lugged out a huge, crisped slab of meat, sizzling hot and dripping fatty juices onto the sand.

  “Johan would like that bit, I’ll wager,” Grimcrag grunted, nodding at the hunk of flesh. “He always did like a nice bit of crackling.”

  They paused in unison, the unspoken bond of untold shared adventures and brushes with death uniting the Marauders’ thoughts.

  A dull thumping and muffled shrieking intruded upon their reverie, and Keanu stood up, rack of monster in hand. He padded lithely across the beach to the spot where their battered rowing boat lay overturned on the sand. The thudding and shouting quite clearly came from beneath the upturned hull. Keanu reached down and carefully lifted up one side of the boat, peering underneath through the small firelit crack. A pair of wild and staring eyes greeted him, accompanied by animalistic growls and mewlings.

  Johan’s panic was rudely interrupted by one edge of his coffin being lifted away. Ruddy light seeped through the crack. A hulking shape awaited, accompanied by the unmistakable smell of charred and burning flesh.

  “This is it then, Hell it is for me,” Johan burbled, terrified and miserable. At least he wouldn’t be stuck in the dark forever, which perhaps was some small consolation.

  “Avake, jung ’un?” The unmistakable voice ripped through Johan’s mind, and reality rapidly readjusted itself in his brain.

  “Gghhh?” the ex-envoy burbled, wondering how Keanu came to be down in Hell too. Perhaps he had a visitor’s day-pass.

  “Head betta? Hungry?” Keanu’s voice cajoled, but Anstein knew that devils and daemons could be very convincing if they wanted. He backed off to the far side of his coffin, trying to remember suitable holy signs or gestures. Something outside sighed patiently.

  “Kom on out, you’re Schleepink too long, ja? Nitemares also, by da look of it. All tangled unda da tarpaulin you are.”

  The delicious tang of roasting meat reached Johan’s nostrils and his grumbling stomach decided the matter in lieu of his concussed mind.

  “Keanu?” he whimpered hopefully, “Is it really you?”

  Whatever stood beyond the coffin seemed to pause and ponder the question.

  “Ja, ’f Korse, schtupid!” With one mighty heave, the barbarian lifted the boat away from Johan, who lay revealed, blinking in the firelight.

  Johan shivered uncontrollably, wrapped in his tarpaulin-shroud, dazed and confused. An all-important question rose to the fore of his battered mind, back as he was, from the dead. Before he could stop them, his cracked and swollen lips had formed the fateful words.

  “Can I smell… crackling?”

  The pathway from the beach into the jungle was obviously well trodden, but the Marauders trod it with exceptional care. As they
wound onwards through leafy glades, one moment they were drenched in tropical sunlight, the next they were plunged into the greeny darkness of the humid forest canopy.

  Jiriki took the lead, gliding with silky footfall along the jungle track. The elf sniffed the air, listening intently at every turn. It was a source of some contention between Keanu the hulking barbarian and Jiriki the elf as to which had the most highly attuned senses. No one would argue that in the natural state, an elf’s senses were keener than those of man or dwarf, but the Reaver had long proven himself to be something of an exception. His ability to pinpoint danger was second to none (except maybe Jiriki on a very good day), and he too moved catlike in the jungle, but staying perhaps ten feet from the path itself.

  Grimcrag was still rumbling about “All that sixth senses nonsense!” and snorting derisively to himself. He made no attempt at quietness, clattering along in his trusty armour, the clanks and hangings interspersed with frequent hearty belches. This disregard of any possible danger, to Johan’s way of thinking, made something of a nonsense of the others’ theatrical movements.

  “Let me tell you, young Anstein,” bellowed the dwarf, receiving a recriminating stare from Jiriki and a muffled “Qviet!” from a nearby bush. “There’s some senses what is ’stremely useful, and others,” the dwarf pointed at Jiriki’s frozen form, “what isn’t.” Johan noticed that for all his brevity, the second part of Grimcrag’s utterance was little more than a whisper. The dwarf belched, shrugging apologetically. “Pardon me, lad, sea monster. Always repeats something awful, in my ’sperience.” The dwarf pushed his warhelm back and scratched vigorously at his grizzled scalp. “Hot, innit?”

  Johan nodded, peering cautiously into the gloomy canopy on either side. Everywhere, things were moving; unseen things that flapped, or scrabbled, or crawled, or just made atonal cooing noises in the distance. Sword drawn, the envoy felt decidedly uncomfortable as they made their way down the beaten track. He didn’t want to go first, as that way lay almost certain first contact with them, and he didn’t want to go last, as that way he was almost certain to be picked off without anyone else noticing. In actual fact, he didn’t much like the idea of being on the track at all, as it was such an obvious place to set a trap (even the words trap and track were strangely similar), and the very thought of plunging off into the forest, as Keanu had, filled the young man with queasy unease.

  “Anyhow,” Grimcrag carried on, waving his axe vaguely at the vegetation, “what’s the use of being able to creep about in the jungle?” Johan was about to enter a plea on behalf of forest lore, tracking, hunting and so on, but Grimcrag was in full flow. “No, heightened and truly useful senses relate to real things, things you can touch…” The dwarf’s voice tailed off, and Johan had a pretty good idea what he was contemplating, and it wasn’t dusky maidens from Araby.

  “Such as… gold?” He ventured, prodding Grimcrag from his reverie.

  “Well, I s’pose that’s as good an example as any,” Grimcrag whispered hoarsely. “My senses can detect gold—and beer too, for that matter—from a distance of…” The dwarf stopped in his tracks and frowned.

  Johan looked puzzled. Surely Grimcrag was not about to be overcome by a fit of honesty regarding his claims? Looking over his shoulder at the dwarf, Johan almost bumped into Jiriki. The elf had stopped dead still, managing to meld almost invisibly into the background. Only his bright red jerkin gave him away, and the best the elf could manage under the circumstances was to vanish to the extent that it looked as though someone had left their shirt out to dry on the bole of a tree. Of Keanu there was no sign.

  Over his shoulder, Johan could see Grimcrag standing still as stone, eyes closed, nostrils dilated as he sniffed the leaden air. Sending darting glances all around in search of trouble, all Johan saw was further evidence of paradise. Yellow-white shards of sunlight flashed through the greenery, catching the heavy moisture in the laden air like glittering gemstones. Nearby, unseen, a stream trickled and gurgled seductively. A multi-coloured bird with huge wings sang sweetly as it glided between treetops far overhead. Water trickled off the mound of stark white skulls sitting by the bend in the pathway.

  “Skulls?”

  “A village!”

  “Qviet, dammit!”

  “BEER!”

  The settlement appeared deserted—a collection of thatched mud huts, of curiously familiar design, situated in the middle of a sun-drenched clearing. Ringed by palm trees bearing coconuts as big as Johan’s head, the village certainly looked idyllic. The tinkling burble of fresh, flowing water sounded from behind the furthest hut, and the only other sounds came from the jungle.

  Stepping around the pile of skulls, which on close inspection seemed to belong to an assortment of creatures of all shapes and sizes, Johan peered at the dwellings laid out before him. Squinting in the harsh sunlight, the tatters of his sweat-soaked shirt sticking uncomfortably to his back, he stood stock still and watched for any sign of movement.

  Having wisely discarded his scarlet blouse, Jiriki was a shadow amongst shadows. The last Johan had seen of him the elf had been somewhere to the left, behind a cluster of wooden, shed-like buildings. That had been at least ten minutes ago. Of Keanu there was no sign at all.

  “Come on then, lad, no point in hanging about when there’s beer to be drunk,” Grimcrag said cheerily. “Sides, there’s obviously no one at home.” With that, the dwarf strode into the village, his heavy boots kicking up little dust motes in the clearing. Somewhat more hesitantly, Johan followed in his footsteps.

  In the centre of the duster of huts, a small and overgrown pyramid thrust uncertainly towards the sky. Overhead, the palm trees which ringed the clearing sent branches scurrying as if to try and close off the immodest gap carved in the jungle canopy. Johan approached the structure for a closer look. He was troubled by the red-brown stains which marked the age-worn stone. Nonetheless, he tugged at the covering of lianas and vines, a twisted that of root and leaf which conspired to convince the casual observer that this pyramid was, in fact, simply a strangely shaped bush or tree. Undeterred, the envoy pressed on, ripping and tugging at the tenacious growth. Johan had spotted something which he thought be of considerable interest, and wasn’t to be put off easily.

  So had Grimcrag, pulling aside a hastily thrown-together shield of palm fronds from alongside of one of the buildings. What he saw positioned in the cool dark of the side alley made the old dwarf gasp in surprise.

  At that moment, a commotion on the far side of the clearing announced Jiriki’s arrival, as the elf marched a captive lizard-creature into the clearing.

  “Writing on stone!”

  “Gentlemen, we have a captive.”

  “Beer!”

  The three adventurers all exclaimed at the same time. Jiriki’s prisoner took advantage of the confusion by trying to scuttle off to the safety of a pond on the edge of the clearing. The elf hauled it back quickly with a tug on the rope which he had tied around its stomach. The creature sank down onto its haunches beside the elf, looking disconsolate. A long tongue shot out to grab a passing fly, but after a moment the bizarre reptile-man sat still, blinking its big eyes in the harsh sunlight.

  “Not so fast, froggie. Stay where you are!” The elf tied the other end of the rope around a sturdy post which supported one of the huts, then turned to the others. “Now, what did you say?”

  “Writing!” Johan shouted, scraping furiously at the pyramid.

  “Beer!” Grimcrag exclaimed, gesturing at the unmistakable shape of a large vat sitting in the cool shadows of the side alley. The dwarf had found a supply of hollowed coconut shells that obviously served as mugs, and held one beneath a cork bung on the side of the wooden vat. Removing the bung, the dwarf was showered in a dark brown liquid. A hoppy smell filled the warm and humid air. Filling the shell, he replaced the stopper, grinning happily.

  “See, beer!” Grunsonn chuckled, downing the shell full in one capacious gulp. “Good too, but maybe could have done with stand
ing f’ra bit longer.”

  “Never mind that, come and look at this lot!” Johan was beside himself. He had climbed almost to the very top of the pyramid, where a large clump of vines concealed some kind of ornate stonework.

  The others walked over, Grimcrag slurping beer. The elf shook a warning finger at the lizard thing, which had crawled into the shade offered by the canopy of a nearby hut.

  “Rik!” The creature gave a croaking burp, but made no attempt to untie itself, apparently resigned to its fate.

  “Did that thing call you ‘Rick’?” Grimcrag asked, throwing the empty coconut shell away. The dwarf stood at the base of the pyramid, clenched fists on hips, staring belligerently up at the young man atop the construction. Bits of vine and moss floated down towards the dwarf. “Wotcha doing, Anstein? This thing doesn’t look too safe!”

  “Rik! LsssRik!” said the lizard.

  “And you can shut up n’all.”

  Jiriki was peering intently at the base of the pyramid, where Johan had uncovered a patch of bare stone. Using a silk kerchief, the elf dusted some smaller fragments away from the surface, peered for a moment, then stood back in surprise. A clod of earth hit the elf on the head, but he made no indication of noticing.

  “How?” Jiriki began, brows furrowing in surprise and consternation. “What?”

  “See, I told you, and that’s just the start!” Johan’s voice wavered with excitement.

  “LsssRIK! LSSSRIKK!” In the shelter of the hut, the lizard thing was getting quite animated.

  “Wot?” Grimcrag called, stomping over to where the elf stood mesmerised. The dwarf peered at the stonework. “Wot is all the fuss ab-eh?” The dwarf stood as if frozen, a thick and stubby finger repeatedly tracing a carved line in the exposed stonework.