When this didn’t work, and he noticed the grins on the warriors’ faces, he began to suspect that all was not well. Tapping the claw on the palm of his other hand, he jumped off the table and quickly found himself backed up against the turret wall. “Die…?” he whimpered feebly.
“We weren’t born yesterday, mate!” Grimcrag grunted. “Eh, Johan?” The Marauders closed in on the pathetic, misguided and evil old man.
The white radiance faded and vanished as the great stone door slid into place once more. This time around, the Marauders had taken the precaution of bringing two other long-standing sorcerous acquaintances to supervise the resealing of the runes protecting the vault, and to work out how the secret door could be brought back into place. Then, and only then, could they really forget about the whole affair.
There wasn’t much Johan could do except stand by with a torch and a sword. Keanu was doing the same: torch to illuminate the others’ work, sword to deter any would-be intruders. Johan was mightily relieved that no monsters of any description had turned up yet. In contrast, the barbarian was staring intently down the rough hewn passageway, and Johan was sure that the Reaver did not share his sentiments.
The two wizards—one bald and portly with fiery red gown and ruddy cheeks, the other tall and gaunt with flowing and sombre purple robes—stood back from the doors to admire their handiwork. After a few minor runic readjustments, they proclaimed their task completed.
Jiriki had already declared that the elf sigils were largely unbroken, and should stand the test of another few thousand years without any strain.
Grimcrag had enquired, checking over the dwarf runes on the portal, if that was really the best that could be expected from shoddy elf work? “Aha!” he declared, stubby fingers probing the recesses around the stone-wrought door frame. “I’ve found the catch to young Anstein’s secret portal.” As far as his stout build would allow, Grimcrag pressed himself flat to the surface of the door, and reached his hand into a dark crack at one side. His eyes were closed to mere slits and his tongue protruded from between his compressed lips in concentration.
“Votch for Skorpion, Grimcrak!” Keanu whispered, all too familiar with the sorts of creatures to be found simply by probing one’s fingers into the myriad small nooks and crannies to be found in any hostile dungeon.
“Thanks, musclehead, that’s just what I don’t need to hear!” grunted Grimcrag. “This thing was built by dwarfs, so it must be set up to… ahhh, that’ll do it!”
With a muted grating sound, a sheet of roughly surfaced rock began to slide slowly down over the rune-encrusted doorway. In a few minutes the secret chamber would be invisible to all but the keenest search. As they stood and watched the monumental slab descend, they all heard the unmistakable sound of scrabbling coming from within.
“Ee’s Voken up then,” the barbarian stated impassionately. “Looks that way,” Grimcrag added.
A barely discernible voice reached them through the stone door, which was already at least halfway covered by the descending slab. Grimcrag strode forward and listened to catch the words.
“Don’t leave me here… The light it pains me so… My powers are nothing in here… Please, I implore you!”
Grimcrag rapped on the stone door. “Hush now, you’ll wake ’em up—and I’ll wager you don’t want that!”
The scrabbling redoubled, but was soon blocked out as the massive slab slotted into its final resting place with a solid booming thud and a cloud of dust.
When the air cleared, they were standing in a nondescript and gloomy passage once more.
Grimcrag rubbed his hands together. “There now, a job well done.”
“Many thanks to you, Marius, Hollochi,” Jiriki added gracefully, bowing to the two wizards.
“Least we could do after that nasty business with the Crown of Implacable Woe,” replied the Bright wizard cheerily, whilst the Amethyst mage simply gave a single, sombre inclination of his head.
“Ja, tanks a lot!” the Reaver added. “Now ve’re getting to da Alehaus.”
Without further ado, the party of adventurers set off towards daylight and a well-earned tankard or two.
Grimcrag hung behind and walked alongside Johan, filling the latest addition to the Marauders with pride. “Well, lad, it could’ve turned out worse,” the dwarf stated. “At least we’ve done a good service to folk hereabouts.”
“Oh yes, Grimcrag, all-told a jolly successful quest, eh?” Johan agreed happily.
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. We’re not dead, and he—” Grimcrag cocked a grubby thumb over his shoulder. “He’s locked up for good’n’all, but…” The dwarf sighed sadly. “Not even a snifter of any gold.” His shoulders sagged as far as his battered armour would allow.
Johan grinned and reached into his pack, retrieving a large bundle of keys. They jangled comfortably.
“Oh I don’t know about that, Grimcrag. Whilst you lot were busy bundling him up, I took the liberty of borrowing these.”
Recognising the keys, the dwarf’s jaw dropped in surprise. “I’ll be blowed!” he exclaimed. Further up the passageway, heads turned to see what the commotion was about.
Johan lifted up the keys and jangled them merrily above his head. “It’s a big tower, I know, but somewhere there’s a heck of a lot of gold going begging—and the way I see it, he still owes us for the job!”
Relieved and uproarious laughter filled the dingy tunnel. In a moment the buoyant adventurers burst into song, Grimcrag leading and the others taking up the refrain:
“Gold gold gold gold!
Gold gold gold gold!
Wonderful gold!
Delectable gold…”
As they marched along, Grimcrag patted Johan paternally on the shoulder. “Yer one of us now, lad,” he said between verses. “Ain’t it grand when a brilliant plan of mine comes together!”
THE MAN WHO STABBED
LUTHER VAN GROOT
Sandy Mitchell
If Sam Warble had anything which might be described as a philosophy of life, it could best be summed up as “Don’t go looking for trouble.” Not that he had any need to; trouble had a habit of looking for him, which, on the whole, he was prepared to tolerate. Other people’s trouble tended to be lucrative, and his own even more so. Like most halflings he had a strong affinity for life’s little comforts, and prising him away from them was an expensive undertaking for anyone wishing to engage his somewhat specialised services.
This evening, however, trouble seemed conspicuous by its absence. Sam was settled comfortably in his favourite seat in Esmeralda’s Apron, a halfling-owned tavern on the fringes of Marienburg’s elven quarter, quietly contemplating the remains of a light seven-course supper, the most pressing matter on his mind the one of whether to order a Bretonnian brandy or Kislevan aquavit to wash it down with. The food in the Apron was widely renowned, so it wasn’t that uncommon to see human customers squeezing themselves uncomfortably onto the halfling-sized benches, but he was mildly surprised when one of them approached his table and sat down opposite, staring at him morosely between a pair of knees clad in crimson hose.
“Alfons. It’s been a while.” He nodded a cordial greeting, and gestured to the serving maid who’d been hovering nearby, flirting with a party of customers from the Kleinmoot. He might as well order the brandy, as it looked like someone else would be paying. “Or am I supposed to call you Mineer de Wit now you’re an alderman?” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “You’re a long way from the Winkelmarkt, so I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.”
“I thought I might find you here,” the man confirmed, ordering a second brandy for himself. He waited until it had arrived, and sipped appreciatively at it before continuing. “I have a problem. One better discussed away from home.”
“I see.” Sam nodded thoughtfully, savouring his own drink. It was smooth and fragrant, and knowing the proprietor of the Apron, undoubtedly smuggled into the city to evade the excise duty. “So who’s blackmailin
g you?”
“What makes you say that?” de Wit asked, a little too casually, and Sam nodded, his guess confirmed.
“You’re a politician. With a lot of goodwill in your home ward, after that business with Luther van Groot, and that means influence.”
“Which in Marienburg meant the chance to make money; here in the mercantile capital of the Old World, wealth and power were almost synonymous. A little fish tells me you’re in line for a seat in the Burgerhof too.”
“People say these things,” de Wit said, his air of modesty about as convincing as a streetwalker’s protestations of virginity. Sam nodded again. The Stadsraad, Marienburg’s parliament, was little more than a puppet show put on by the cabal of merchant houses which really took all the policy decisions, but a seat in the lower house would open up all kinds of valuable contacts to a man as ambitious as de Wit.
“So I’m guessing someone wants their own slice of the pie, and thinks you’re just the man to get it for them. With the right inducement, of course.”
“That’s just it,” de Wit said. “They haven’t made any demands yet.” He pushed a folded scrap of paper across the tabletop. “Just veiled threats.” Sam unfolded it.
We know the truth about you and van Groot, he read. You’ll hear from us again soon.
“Short and to the point.” He shrugged, and finished his drink. “Luckily for you, so am I. Thirty guilders a day, plus expenses.” He half expected de Wit to argue, but the alderman merely nodded.
“Don’t take all week. I don’t have a bottomless purse, you know.” He counted out thirty gold coins, and tucked the now empty bag back into his belt. “The first day’s fee up front, as usual?”
“That’ll do fine,” Sam said, slipping the money into his own purse and calling for another round of brandies. He glanced at the slip of paper again, folded it, and handed it back. “What do you think it means?”
“It seems to imply that I was involved in van Groot’s criminal activities,” de Wit said at once. “Which is ridiculous, of course. I was the only man in the entire ward with the guts to stand up to him.”
“He’s not exactly been missed,” Sam conceded. The death of their leader had broken the back of van Groot’s gang, and although his lieutenants had carved up most of his illegal enterprises between them, their activities since his demise had been on a far smaller scale. De Wit had been quick to capitalise on the gratitude of his fellow tradesmen to run for office, and both his political and financial affairs had begun to prosper as a result. Sam waited until de Wit had climbed laboriously to his feet, banging his head against one of the rafters in the process, before asking his final question. “By the way, and just between the two of us, were you doing any business with van Groot before he died?” The alderman flushed.
“If you really believe that, I’ll have my thirty guilders back right now,” he said. Sam shrugged.
“For thirty guilders I’ll believe anything you ask me to,” he replied cheerfully.
With his purse now considerably heavier, and several of the finest restaurants in Marienburg within easy walking distance, Sam saw little need to hurry home. Not that he had one in the conventional sense; he rented half a dozen rooms in different districts, moving between them as the mood took him, or his current job dictated. One happened to be in the heart of Alfons’ home ward, so he decided to sleep there that night, hailing a water coach and crossing the Reikmouth the easy way rather than taking the circuitous route across the single mighty bridge which linked the two halves of the maritime city. The boatman dropped him in the heart of the Winkelmarkt, navigating skilfully through the maze of narrow canals which threaded the island chain, leaving him on one of the innumerable landing stages which could be found within a few hundred yards of almost anywhere in the city if you knew where to look.
Waiting a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, Sam climbed the rickety wooden stairs to the alleyway above, hardly needing to see his way at all. His lodgings were only a couple of streets away, and he’d used this landing stage so often he could have found his way home from there blindfolded; or at least blind drunk, which he had done on several occasions. Tonight, though, he was still sober, despite the amount of drink he’d taken on board, ballasted as it had been by enough fine food to have sunk a small carrack.
The alleyway seemed deserted at first, no surprise at this time of night, and he quickened his pace towards the flare of torchlight marking the wider street which crossed it. As he did so one of the patches of shadow ahead of him seemed to move, detaching itself from the darkness of a doorway. Sam glanced behind, seeing another flicker of motion cutting off any possible line of retreat down the alleyway. Fine, he’d just have to keep going forwards then. Breaking into a run, he drew a dagger from his belt.
If the man waiting for him was surprised by this, he gave no sign of the fact, simply walking forward in an unhurried fashion and bracing himself to meet the halfling’s attack. If anything he seemed amused at the idea of his prey being able to mount any effective resistance. Well, the cemeteries were full of humans who’d underestimated a halfling opponent, Sam knew, having put a fair number of them there himself over the years.
As he closed with his assailant, a faint thread of unease began to prickle behind his scalp. The man stood as though he was holding a weapon, but his hands were empty, and something didn’t seem quite right about them.
Almost at the last minute Sam realised what was wrong. Though the would-be assassin’s hands were bare, his arms showing pale where they emerged from his enveloping cape, their outlines were blurred, a haze of darkness hovering about them, swallowing the light that oozed into the alleyway from the street beyond. A clear sign of sorcery.
Forewarned in the nick of time, Sam ducked under the reaching hand, and rolled, trying to ignore the hardness of the cobbles and the thin coating of filth which adhered to his jerkin. A jolt of pain seared through his shoulder as the groping fingers brushed against it, failing to close in time, and then he crashed into the shins of the black-robed assassin. With a yell of surprise the man fell, and Sam slashed at his throat with the dagger in his hand. A spray of blood, almost as black as the shadows in the distant torchlight, fountained, drenching the halfling in warm, sticky fluid.
Almost retching with revulsion Sam clambered to his feet, already searching for the other man he’d seen, but the wizard’s confederate had obviously had second thoughts despite the drawn sword gripped tightly in his hand. With one look at the furious, blood-drenched halfling, he turned and fled.
Sam hesitated, considered going after him, and dismissed the idea. Whoever he was, the fellow had a good start, and he’d never be able to catch up with him now. Instead he began to search the body, hoping to find some indication of who wanted him dead so badly.
“You! Shortarse! Stop right there!” A clattering of boots rang on the filth-slick cobblestones, and the narrow alley was abruptly full of lamplight. Sam stood slowly, and smiled without humour.
“Sergeant Rijgen. Who says there’s never a watchman around when you need one?”
“Oh, it’s you.” Rijgen took in the blood matting Sam’s hair and jerkin, and the crimson-stained dagger in his hand. “Self defence again, was it?”
“That’s right.” Sam nodded. “Two of them jumped me. The other one ran off towards van der Decken’s boatyard.”
“Can you describe him?” Rijgen asked. After a moment of silence he shrugged. “Thought not. Anything on the body?”
Sam shook his head.
“What did you expect? A strange tattoo, or a mysterious medallion? You’ve seen too many melodramas.”
“What I expect is a bit of co-operation,” Rijgen said, then sighed. “You do realise I should take you in, don’t you? But what would be the point? You’re not going to tell me what this is all about anyway, and Captain Marcus would never let me hear the last of it.” He sighed again. “Bugger off, while I clean up the mess. It’s what I’m paid for, after all.”
�
�It sounds like sorcery, all right.” Kris nodded thoughtfully, and took a long pull at his ale tankard. After cleaning up as best he could, Sam had sought out the young magician in the taproom of the Dancing Pirate, a local tavern where they habitually met. He’d made use of Kris’ talents before, and trusted his judgement where magic was concerned. “The bad kind too, pure Chaos.” He looked at Sam appraisingly over the rim of his tankard. “Lucky you’re a halfling. A man would have been crippled by that spell, at the very least. It wouldn’t have taken them long to finish you off after that.”
Sam nodded thoughtfully. It wasn’t the first time he’d had cause to be grateful for his kind’s innate immunity to magic, and he doubted that it would be the last.
“Do you know anyone who might be dabbling in that sort of thing?” Kris shook his head.
“I wouldn’t want to,” he said, although he didn’t take offence at the question. Unlike the Colleges of Magic in the Empire, the great university in Marienburg taught elements of all the magical traditions in a fairly piecemeal fashion, although it shared their abhorrence of Chaos; however, the line between legitimate and forbidden thaumaturgy was rather more blurred here, and it wasn’t always easy to tell when someone had crossed it. “I’ll ask around, see if anyone’s been taking an unhealthy interest in the forbidden stuff lately.”
“I’d appreciate it.” Sam emptied his own tankard. “You know how to find me if you hear anything.”
Whoever it was behind the assassination attempt, Sam thought, they’d be unlikely to try again so soon; nevertheless he kept his eyes open as he made his way home, and didn’t really relax until his door was closed and firmly barred behind him. After that he slept perfectly soundly until the following day, when the familiar sounds of the laundry below opening for business accompanied the hearty breakfast his landlady brought up the stairs for him. She sighed as she picked up his discarded clothing.
Tales of the Old World Page 33
