Tales of the Old World

by Marc Gascoigne

  As the desperate litany spilled from the priest’s lips, the warrior bent closer, his voice a savage whisper.

  “Your god will not hear you.” His arm swept back, taking in the expansion of death and destruction that spread for miles in every direction. “Around this battlefield, my masters laugh and scream in triumph. The Dark Gods’ power is strong here and your prayers will go unanswered. If you want salvation, you had best ask for it of other entities than your weak lord.”

  Markus tried to spit in disgust, but the thin dribble of saliva merely dripped down his chin, making him feel foolish rather than defiant. “I would rather be torn apart by wild creatures than to ask your insane gods for aid. If that is the best you have to offer, I think my soul is very safe. Just strike me down now, and stop wasting my time!”

  “Strike you down? As you wish!”

  Estebar stood up abruptly, unsheathing his sword and holding it high in one clean motion. Markus flinched involuntarily and shrank back from its glowing blade. The Chaos warrior appeared to be scowling and his dark eyes burned intensely.

  “See, you still want life!” Estebar sighed as he lowered the sword slowly, then slid it back carefully into its black sheath. “You have not the conviction you would like to believe you possess. I would not strike you down, you who I barely know and yet who intrigues me so much.” He shook his head and fixed Markus with a twisted grin. “Your faith is uncertain, so what makes you think you really have Sigmar’s protection?”

  “My faith is certain; be sure of that, hellspawn!”

  Markus surprised himself with the vehemence of his words. The priest wanted this strange conversation to end. This was not the threat of Chaos he had been brought up, and then taught, to fight. How could one fight an enemy who tried to defeat you with words alone, spoken by a voice which seemed to hover inside one’s very mind. Markus did not want to answer Estebar’s inquiry, but the warrior’s voice seemed to reach into his head and pull the answers from his lips.

  “Sigmar has saved me before,” Markus started before he knew what he was saying, his eyes glinting with defiance. Estebar looked at him quizzically, one eyebrow raised. That one simple gesture seemed to have a world of meaning and Markus felt a tug at his consciousness, pulling the story from the depths of his memory.

  “I grew up in a small village near to the World’s Edge Mountains. I was the son of a miller and fully believed that I would continue running the mill after he was dead or retired.” Markus’ eyes were drawn to Estebar’s. Those midnight orbs were like a bottomless gulf, pulling everything into them, sucking Markus ever deeper. The words came tumbling from the priest’s mouth, despair overwhelming his heavy heart.

  “Then one day, in the spring, the beastmen came. They attacked without warning: the militia had no time to assemble. I saw my father and younger brother cut down by their wicked blades, and I watched as they chased my mother and sister into the foothills. I had been delivering our monthly tithe of flour, four half-sacks of the finest, to the shrine of Sigmar when they stormed out of the dark forests. They did not enter the shrine—they couldn’t, it was too holy a place for their kind—but they had other plans. They were clever; they brought torches and stole oil from the store house and set light to the chapel while we were still inside.”

  Markus’ voice cracked and tears welled up in his eyes at the memory. The other man’s black orbs continued to stare intently, as if sucking the information out of Markus. Wiping the tears from his bloodstained cheeks, the priest felt compelled to continue.

  “The old priest, Franko, soon fell to the smoke and fumes and I hid in the crypt. The smoke and flames followed me, though, and I thought I was trapped and would certainly die. Even if I could get past the flames the beastmen would cut me down as soon as they saw me. Then another’s voice was in my head, talking to me. It was Sigmar, you see,” Markus insisted, “guiding me, directing me, telling me an escape route. One of the tombs was false; pressing a hidden lever I opened the secret doorway within and stumbled down a long tunnel which took me away from the village.”

  Estebar’s face was a blank mask, but the priest pressed on in eager confession. “When I hit the open air again I ran and ran, and almost died of exhaustion before I came to the count’s castle. He sent an army of his men to harry the foul raiders while his daughter tended to my health. She was sweet and I would have loved her… had I not heard another’s calling even stronger.”

  Markus remembered that feeling, of salvation from the flames, and how his own faith had been fanned from a flickering spark into the raging fire of belief. Looking at Estebar he felt his fears subsiding.

  “From that day on I swore I would return Sigmar’s grace. I took up the robe and hammer in his name. That is the root of my faith and though I may flinch at your blows, it is still strong enough to thwart your masters.”

  Markus stared at the dark warrior, the defiance rekindled in his eyes, expecting some petty retort that would seek to belittle his convictions again. None came. Estebar sat looking thoughtful for a moment, his hand toying absently with the sculpted pommel of his sword. The warrior looked around him again at the carnage, then cocked his head to one side a moment before the howl of wolves, closer this time, echoed through the heavy air. He looked to the west and frowned.

  “Sundown is nearly upon us, and the time is fast approaching. Shall I tell you of saviours and debts? Of divine deliverance and holy missions?”

  As he saw the longing in the Chaos warrior’s eyes, Markus’ lips formed a sneer. “I do not need to hear your tale of treachery and weakness. You are less than nothing to me!”

  Estebar waved dismissively, as if Markus was little more than an irritating insect, and sighed. “Whatever.” He looked up at the rapidly darkening sky, his memory lost in a dim, distant time.

  “My faith started much younger than yours, and I had not the choice you were offered. I was the eldest son of a wealthy merchant family in Nuln. I had a good education, lots of friends and powerful allies, and all this before I had seen fifteen summers! Life was good—probably too good, my later experiences have taught me. Chaos was the bane of my family too. I can see why you were brought to me now; we have at least that much in common. Behind the strong walls of Nuln we were safe from marauding beastmen, but another peril, one much more loathsome and insidious, awaited us.”

  The warrior’s dark eyes were sad, though a faint glimmer of a smile played about his lips for a moment and then faded. He sat down on Alayma again, more gently this time, and stared at the ground. Absentmindedly, he began to pull off his heavy gauntlets.

  “A cult, dedicated to the Lord of Pleasure, enticed us into a trap. For all we knew, it was just another magnificent party, another event in a busy social calendar. However, they locked the doors after we had entered, and then the sacrifices began. I will not say what perverse fascinations went on there, for it would take too long and I have no wish to be found alone on this field when the stalkers of the night come running. However, let me say simply that one by one the guests were sacrificed to Slaanesh, until only a few of us, the youngest, remained. Obviously we were highly prized. Fate had other plans for me, though, and when the Reiksguard broke down the doors and smashed through the windows I thought I was saved. They slew the cultists and freed us, but I was never truly free again.”

  The Chaos warrior fell silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the withered, blood-soaked grass between his boots. Then he gave Markus a crooked smile.

  “Slaanesh, Prince of Chaos, had already caught my soul without even asking for it! The warpstone incense burnt during the long ceremony took a grip on me. Slowly at first, I remember, my senses grew more powerful. I could see minute details on plants and animals, I could hear the whispers of my neighbours like the thunderclaps of a storm and the feel of the silken clothes in my wardrobe against my skin approached ecstasy.” Estebar stroked a hand through dead Alayma’s flowing mane and shuddered, his lip quivering and his eyes rolled up for a moment. Then he snatched
his hand back, as if taking control of himself, and his eyes narrowed dangerously.

  Markus could see that the memories were not as pleasant as Estebar would like him to believe. Who could tell how much the young man had endured, half-possessed by an ancient, evil god, forced to follow the ways of darkness. Perhaps, Markus considered, Estebar was longing for an end to his curse. Mind whirling, the priest started formulating a plan that would save them both from damnation.

  “There is no need for this agony to continue. Come with me and I will teach you the old path of Faith. You will learn again what it means to have your freedom,” he insisted.

  Estebar did not seem to hear or want to listen; he was wholly wrapped up in his own past. Regaining his composure, he carried on with his tale.

  “That was not all. My mind expanded also, giving me a prescience, a foresight into the future. Combined with everything else, my life was full of pleasure. I endured the moment to every extent and could see the later pleasures that would follow at the same time. I wasted these skills at first, taking pleasure in women and feasting and drinking. I used my foresight to amass a fortune at the gambling tables. When the rich society had been exhausted, a conquest of perhaps seven or eight years, I looked to lower quarters for my entertainment. Slaanesh had me in its grip and every night for years I frequented the dockside taverns, challenging death with cut-throats and other scum for the sheer excitement and rush of blood.” The Chaos warrior sighed again. “Then suddenly I was bored again. A wanderlust filled me, and I travelled wide, revelling in every new experience; a night under the stars, the feel of a hearty farmhouse daughter, the taste of exotic foods. Slowly, but with a subtle determination, I made my way northwards, through Kislev, and a few elegant dances at the Tzarina’s court, up into the Troll country, ever onwards to the realm of the Lost and the Damned. I was Slaanesh’s pawn and loved it. I travelled those nightmare regions until I stood before the Great Gate itself and begged Slaanesh to allow me to enter into the beautiful paradise that lies beyond.” Estebar looked up, his face made of steel. “I was flung back far, scorned and ridiculed for my impudence. Entrance into that plane was not to be given lightly. I would have to buy my way in.”

  Markus was shocked. The implication of the other’s words were clear. “You seek no redemption, you truly are happy in your chains. You are a greater fool than I realised to be held by such a weak lure. The only eternity worthwhile to strive for is in the embrace of Sigmar, not some unholy hell forged from a mad god’s whims!” Then another realisation dawned on Markus and he eyed Estebar with renewed suspicion.

  “Souls. You must pay a number of souls to the Ruinous Powers before they let you cross over, isn’t that it?”

  Estebar laughed loudly and for a long time. With an enthusiastic grin he nodded. “Yes, yes! My dear Markus—but of course I know your name; how sharply your wits are honed!” The Chaos warrior smiled benevolently. “But not any souls. Oh no, that would be far too easy. The souls I have claimed for Chaos, for I forswore Slaanesh as my sole patron, have been men of high standing, strong of courage and moral fibre like yourself.”

  Markus was shocked. “How can anybody willingly give themselves to Chaos? Even you are not guilty of that stupidity!”

  Then another thought occurred to him: they hadn’t gone willingly at all, they had been used and perverted by the same subtle power that Estebar was using on him right now. In the twilight, the Chaos lord seemed to swell. An aura played about his body, spilling through the air like a vapour. As Estebar spoke, Markus fancied he could feel the insubstantial tendrils of that vile aura reaching out to wrap around him too.

  “Lord Sigmar, Father of the Empire, Shield of Mankind, protect me from evil…”

  Estebar seemed to grow angry, his face twisted in a sneer, eyes boring deep into Markus’ head. “You will be my last soul! You will be mine! Guided by the Lord Tzeentch, I have slaughtered thousands just to bring you here. My precognition has waxed powerful over the years and I saw this day long ago. It is the day of my ultimate triumph. I could kill you now, swifter than a blink of your clouded eye, but only you can vouch your soul to my cause. Your soul will be given over to my lordly masters. As you take my place and serve them in this world, I, Estebar, the Master of Slaughter, bringer of despair to a hundred towns, will ascend to the glories of the Otherworld. It is written in my destiny. It will be so!”

  Estebar relaxed his hands, which had been gripped in fists so tight a trickle of blood dripped from his palms where his nails had dug deep into the flesh. Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself.

  “And yet at the last, you still have a choice. Renounce your faith in Sigmar and I will depart to greater glories. Without me at its head, my army will fragment and scatter and the Empire will be safe. If you defy me, I will burn, torture and defile every man, woman and child between here and Altdorf searching for another who will fall before my grace.” He sighed. “There is no point resisting, I will have another soul, so make it yours and you can save thousands of lives, end the torment and suffering and earn your own salvation. Just a simple nod or word is all I need. What does it feel like to be the saviour of the Empire, Markus?”

  “Lord Sigmar, Father of the Empire, Shield of Mankind, protect me from evil…” the priest groaned.

  Markus’ prayers brought no solace. The fiend’s subtle words were playing tricks with his mind. The bargain sounded so simple, and he did not doubt the truth of Estebar’s pledge. Markus was confused, his mind travelling in circles. How could he tell if it was truly Sigmar who had saved him from the fire in the chapel? Could it have been the twisted Chaos Gods who had freed him so many years ago simply so that he would be here now? No doubt the plans of the Dark Powers were bold and only the test of time would see their fruition. Plans within plans, wheels within wheels spun in Markus’ terrified mind. Summoning his mental strength he spat out his defiance wrenching each word from the depths of his soul.

  “I will… not… betray… my… lord!”

  Estebar spoke again, his voice at its most subtle, sliding into Markus’ consciousness and leaving its indelible mark. “Thousands will live or die by your choice, yourself included. Whether you listen to your heart or your head, you have no real choice. Perhaps one day you will come to join me in Dark Paradise.”

  Doubt crept into Markus’ mind like an assassin. Perhaps he could claim his abandonment of Sigmar and thus save the Empire from the ravages of this madman, but in his heart remain true to his faith. Maybe Sigmar had been his saviour, for the very same reason that he alone could avert this catastrophe. Either way, the priest’s past life took on a whole new meaning and many mysteries were now explained to him.

  But what if that was but the first chink in the armour of his faith? Could he truly lie about what he believed? Was this the same path trodden by Estebar’s past victims, believing themselves safe until they realised that they had lied one time too many and they were now damned? Could faith ever be feigned and would Estebar realise Markus’ lack of sincerity?

  As Markus wracked his brains for the right answer, the agonised yowling of some forest creature’s final moments sounded across the darkness, followed by a series of monstrous roars. Estebar stood up and gazed towards the forest in the distance, pulling on his gloves.

  “Make your choice quickly, priest. Other creatures more fell than wolves stalk this night. That is the cry of Khorne’s hunters, the flesh hounds. I will make the choice simple for you. Even if you could free yourself you might not escape the swift chase of those daemon stalkers. You must have a symbol of your new allegiance to protect you from their ripping claws and savage jaws.”

  Estebar stood and drew his sword from its scabbard once again. Startled, Markus was transfixed by the ill-forged blade. It was of the blackest metal, inscribed with golden runes that writhed under his gaze. For a brief moment, though, Markus could understand them; he could decipher the dire spells of cleaving and maiming that they embodied. The moment passed and they turned into evil but nons
ensical sigils once again. Estebar thrust the sword blade down into the ground a foot to Markus’ right, within easy reach. He plucked his cloak off the cold body of Markus’ horse.

  “Cut yourself free, priest, and you and thousands of your countrymen will live. Fulfil your destiny and take up the sword! Do not deny this; it has been written in fate since the stars were formed and the cursed sun first burned. Now I will leave you with your thoughts. Don’t take too long or the choice will be made for you.”

  With a bow of his head and one last regarding look, Estebar fastened his cloak again and strode away into the looming darkness of the early night.

  For a long time Markus did not move, but lay with his eyes closed and listened to his own ragged breathing. There was no one else to convince but himself and he could not lie to his own heart, even if his head could be betrayed. Could he wield that twisted blade at all, even to cut himself free and still remain faithful to Sigmar? There was no guarantee that the sword would let him wield it without first swearing his allegiance to Chaos. There were tales of holy weapons that would burn the hands of the impure if they held them. Perhaps similar unholy weapons existed to test the faith of the impure. Markus was lost inside his own arguments.

  A howl split the silence, and Markus imagined he could feel the padding of many huge clawed feet across the ground. The sound of bestial panting came out of the darkness. Markus opened his eyes.

  The moon of Morrslieb, harbinger of Chaos, was rising over the night-shrouded forest. Silhouetted against that baneful orb was the grip of Estebar’s sword. In the unearthly green glow of the Chaos moon, it looked to Markus for all the world like a hand reaching out to take him into the darkness.

  THE SOUND

  WHICH WAKES YOU

  Ben Chessell

  You never hear the sound which wakes you. It remains in the realm of sleep while you enter the world of wakefulness.