Tales of the Old World

by Marc Gascoigne

  “But you will return, father, won’t you?”

  Fedor bent down and removed the silver chain from around his neck. He showed the boys the locket he held in his hand, an oval tablet inscribed with the likeness of Shallya, the Goddess of Healing.

  “This was your mother’s,” he told the boys. “She gave it to me just before she died. It became my pledge to her that I would always care for you, our sons.” Stefan touched the locket, and a picture of his mother, faint in his memory, came back to him. He pressed the silver tablet into his brother’s palm.

  “It feels cold,” said Mikhal.

  “I’m giving this to you now,” Fedor told Stefan. “Keep it safe for me, just as I will keep my pledge to your mother.”

  “Why do you have to go?” Mikhal asked. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he was shivering despite the warmth from the fire. Stefan drew a protective arm around his brother, as his father had so often done with him.

  “The time has come for me to fight,” Fedor said. His voice was grave but calm, and Stefan suddenly realised that his father had been preparing for this night for a very long time. He hugged Mikhal tightly but his shivering would not stop.

  “Why do you have to fight?” he implored. “Stay here with us!”

  “Bad people are coming,” their father said. “And we must fight them, or they will destroy us.” He smiled, trying to soften the message in his words. Standing in the yellow glow of the oil lamp he looked very tall, very strong. It seemed inconceivable that anyone, or anything, could defeat him. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’re ready for them.”

  Stefan’s mouth felt dry and tight as he spoke. “We can fight too,” he said. “We can fight by your side.”

  His father shook his head. “No, you must show your bravery by staying here. And staying safe. Look after your little brother. That is your duty now.”

  Stefan looked down at the icon of the goddess, and twisted the braided silver chain around his fingers.

  “I’ll keep us safe until you return,” he said at last.

  His father bent and placed a kiss on the forehead of each son. “Keep faith in the goddess. She’ll watch over you always.”

  Fedor Kumansky unlocked a cupboard by the side of the hearth and reached inside. Stefan looked in awe at the sword in its scabbard fastened to the stiff leather harness. Fedor drew the harness around his waist and secured it tightly. Then he took two short daggers from the cupboard, and stuck one inside his belt. He hesitated, turning the second knife over in his hands, then laid it upon the table in front of the boys, and nodded.

  “Stefan, my cloak,” he said gently.

  Mikhal had stopped shivering now. Either that, or Stefan was holding him so tightly that he could no longer shiver. Both boys were transfixed by the sight of their father with the sword. Their father, the warrior.

  “Are the bad ones going to come into the village?” Mikhal asked.

  “No,” his father said. “We’re going to stop them before they get that far.”

  Stefan could feel his heart beating faster and faster. The sick fear in his stomach had returned. “But,” he said, “you’ll come back for us, you promise?”

  Fedor Kumansky paused, one hand outstretched towards the heavy oak door, the other held out to his children. His gaze was fixed upon the ground, but at last he looked up and met Stefan’s eye.

  “Keep your brother safe,” he said. “I’ll come back. I promise.”

  Stefan felt something inside him about to burst. He wanted to sob, to cling to his father, stop him leaving the house. Then they would all be safe. But he knew that was not possible. Another Stefan was starting to emerge from the child that had woken that morning, a Stefan who knew that could not be. But still he needed something, some words of reassurance from his father that he could cling to.

  “Father,” he said. Fedor Kumansky had the door half-open. He turned and looked back sadly at his sons.

  “Is this how things must be now?” Stefan asked. “Will it always be like this, forever?”

  “No,” his father said, quietly. “Nothing lasts forever.”

  Fedor was one of the last to arrive at the cove. The beachhead was in total darkness, but from the voices audible above the roar of the waves, Fedor knew that the men from the village were there in force. As he drew closer, bodies and faces became visible. They must have numbered nearly a hundred, men armed with swords, knives, staves, anything that would deliver a blow. At each end of the bay, the two cannons sat primed and ready to fire. Set against the enormity of the ocean, they looked puny and useless.

  Fedor scanned the faces of the men around him. He had known many of them since he himself had been a child. Daily they risked their lives together on the ocean, trawling for fish with their nets, pitting their strength against the cruel power of the Sea of Claws. These were brave men all, Fedor knew. His trust of them was no less than the trust they placed in him. For a moment his heart lifted; they might yet prevail.

  The gathering storm that he watched from the cliff-tops that afternoon had not abated. The sea boiled in great plumes around the rocks and crashed down upon the shore. Only a fool would contemplate landing a boat in weather like this. A fool, or a madman. He looked around at his kinsmen, and guessed many of them had the same idea. Perhaps the storm would save them.

  He joined a group of villagers who were studying the sea with a spyglass.

  “How many ships?” he asked them.

  Jan Scherensky lowered the glass and handed it to Fedor. “A dozen, maybe more,” he replied. “Not all are bearing lights, so it’s hard to be sure.”

  Fedor took the glass and looked out into the channel. A spread of lights bobbed up and down upon the water line, sometimes dipping below the towering waves, but moving ever closer to shore. It might almost have been the fishing fleet, returning to port after the long night at sea. But these were no honest fishermen.

  “Well,” he said at last. “They’re headed in towards the mouth of the estuary, that’s for sure.”

  Heads around him nodded solemnly. The older ones amongst them remembered the last time, when the Reavers had visited bloody slaughter upon their homes. Maybe this time it wasn’t the Reavers, but one thing was certain: few travelled this way from the north in friendship or for trade.

  “They’ll be headed up river,” Jakob Kolb muttered. “Maybe they even fancy a crack at Erengrad itself.”

  Fedor nodded. “It was possible. History had it that raiders had got that far before. The question is,” he said, “whether they’ve a mind to stop off here first.” He knew in his own mind what the answer to that question was.

  Andrei Markarov took the glass from Fedor and put it to his eye. He was a young man, well over six foot tall, and one of the strongest in the village. And yet Fedor marked the fear in his eyes as he took the glass. A young wife and three small children at home. Fedor knew exactly where that fear came from.

  “All the lights in the village are doused,” Andrei said. “Maybe they won’t even know we’re here.”

  “Maybe,” Jakob agreed. “And maybe not.”

  “At any rate,” Jan Scherensky added, “it would be madness to try and land their boats in this storm.”

  Madness indeed, Fedor thought. He fell to wondering what form that madness might take. Very soon, one way or another, they would find out.

  Within a matter of minutes, the dark shapes of the ships themselves were visible through the gloom, and voices from the men on deck were drifting in to shore. Fedor motioned his men back to take cover behind the shelter of the rocks lining the bay. Nothing must give their presence away; they must stay silent as the grave, and wait.

  Jakob Kolb crouched down behind a crag of rock beside his friend. “Small ships,” he observed. “Small enough to navigate the channels of the Lynsk.”

  Fedor nodded. “And big enough to cause us plenty of trouble. How many do you make now?”

  Jakob raised the glass above the rim of rock. “Fourteen,” he said at last
. “Men on deck of most of them. High in the water; no cargo aboard. They mean to carry back more than they bring.”

  Fedor felt the muscles in his stomach tighten. “Pray to the gods they keep going,” he said, then added: “Gods forgive me that I should wish misfortune on others.”

  The wind suddenly dropped, smoothing the waves. Far above them, the moon Mannslieb emerged from behind the clouds. Silver light washed over the bay, picking out the black fleet in the water below.

  The lead ship reached the entrance to the bay, then tacked away from the beachhead towards the mouth of the Lynsk. The second and third ships in the convoy made to follow. Fedor’s heart gave a leap; he shook Jacob’s arm in early celebration. “Keep sailing,” he muttered, “keep sailing.”

  Then a voice nearby said: “Oh no!”

  The fourth boat was turning in mid-stream, back towards the shallows of the bay.

  “Not this way,” Fedor found himself whispering. “Not this way, not this way.”

  Shouts broke out amongst the men on the fourth boat. Moments later, a burning flare, flew up from the deck of the ship, lighting the night sky a vivid scarlet.

  “What have they seen?” someone shouted. “Why are they stopping?”

  Fedor watched the leading vessels sway and churn in the water. He knew that could mean only one thing: they were turning around.

  A second and third flare spiralled skywards. Now every one of the ships in the fleet seemed to be ablaze with lights. Voices screamed commands in a language that bore no resemblance to any tongue of man that Fedor had heard before.

  Several splashes in the water, almost simultaneously. They’re dropping anchor, he realised. He lifted the glass to his eyes once more and saw the rowing boats being lowered into the water from the decks of at least three of the ships.

  Fedor Kumansky rose from behind the rock and drew himself up to his full height. His throat felt parched and tight; his voice, when he spoke seemed small and insignificant, but he forced it out, summoning all the power he could muster to carry his commands above the sounds of the invaders closing on the shore.

  “Aim the cannon!” he shouted. “Be ready to fight for your lives.”

  For a long time after their father had gone there had been only silence. The two boys sat cross-legged by the fire the only other light the dim glow of the oil-lamp which they had been forbidden to turn any higher. To distract his younger brother from his fears, Stefan had told stories: imaginary tales of the lands beyond Kislev; the princes of Bretonnia, of the magicians that wove their spells across the vast lands of the Empire. And he told Mikhal of the brave warriors of Kislev, the strong, upright men like their own father, men who would never be defeated, not by any foe.

  The light from the lamp guttered and died. The only light and warmth in the room now came from the embers in the hearth.

  “It’s dark,” Mikhal protested. “Light a candle, Stefan.”

  “We mustn’t,” Stefan said, firmly. “Not until father’s back. We have to wait.”

  “How long?” Mikhal demanded. Stefan made no reply; he wanted the question answered too, and suddenly he wished he had a big brother of his own to protect him and answer his questions. Most of all, like Mikhal, he wished their father would return.

  He crept to the window and levered open the shutter far enough to allow him to peer out into the night. It was a sight he had never seen before: the village in total darkness. Not a single light burned in any of the windows of the houses spread around the edge of the square. The streets were empty, the temple bells stilled. Even the birds that settled after dark in the trees beyond the house had fallen silent.

  For a moment the thought leapt into Stefan’s mind that they had been abandoned, that he and Mikhal were the only ones left in the whole village of Odensk. But that was stupid, just a child’s imagination. There must be others, people in every one of the houses, perhaps even now looking out from their windows, like him. In the dark he just couldn’t see them, that was all.

  But suddenly the darkness was no longer total. At the very far end of the street, along the path that led down to the bay, he could see the orange flicker of a lamp or torch being carried up the hill. The silence was no longer total either; Stefan could hear voices following behind the light, though he couldn’t yet make out any of the words. A surge of excitement filled Stefan’s body. He closed his eyes and made a wish, wished that the news was good, that, in a few moments, the door would be flung open and their father would be standing on the step in front of them, his arms spread as wide as the grin upon his face.

  “Mikhal,” Stefan called to his brother, remembering moments later he had promised to keep his voice low. “Mikhal,” he repeated in a whisper. “Come here and see.”

  Mikhal joined his brother at the window, elbowing Stefan aside to get a better view. The single lamp had become a procession, the voices swollen to the sound of a large crowd. The air rang with the clatter of footsteps, marching up the hill that led towards the centre of the village.

  A wave of relief rushed over Stefan. It was over. His father and the others were coming back. He reached up to unfasten the window, ready to call out to his father as he spied him approaching the house.

  His hand fastened upon the latch and then froze. Maybe it was the sound of heavy boots upon the cobble stone—too loud, or too many. Or maybe it was something in the building cacophony of voices, voices singing songs his childhood had never taught him, in a tongue he still could not recognise. Without thinking, Stefan found himself reaching out towards Mikhal, but his younger brother had slipped away from the window.

  He turned and saw Mikhal tugging hard upon the door.

  “I’m going outside!” Mikhal shouted. “Find father!”

  “No!” The intensity in Stefan’s voice frightened them both. But the bolts were already drawn back; the door was open.

  Fedor Kumansky gazed at the bloody carnage all around him and wept. The men of Odensk had been prepared. They were strong, and though they had lived for peace, they were ready to fight fearlessly to protect their homesteads. It had made no difference.

  He brushed away tears with a hand stained red with blood whilst he rested upon his sword to draw precious breath. All around, his brothers of the sea lay dead or dying, slaughtered by creatures driven by a single purpose; to destroy every living thing that lay in their path.

  At first, the battle had gone well. The invaders hadn’t seen Fedor’s men lying in wait behind the rocks, and each of the cannons had found their mark. The two boats that had been lowered from the ships at anchor were destroyed, the men inside killed or thrown into the heavy swell of the sea.

  But even as the first boats sank, three more were in the water, then five, then six. Within minutes the mouth of the bay was clogged with oared vessels being rowed hard towards the shoreline.

  The cannons were reloaded and fired a second, a third time, but the men of Odensk might as well have tried to hold back the tide itself. The invaders made no attempt to rescue those who had been pitched into the water. They were left to die as the next wave of boats ploughed onwards, relentless.

  Fedor drew the sword from its scabbard and held it high above his head. Moonlight glinted off the newly-polished steel.

  “Rise up!” he called to his men. “We’ll send them back wherever they’ve sailed from, and make them rue they ever made the voyage south!”

  Cheers rang out from the rocks around and behind him. Men emerged in their dozens, no longer fishermen, but warriors. Andrei Markarov appeared at his side, his face flushed and excited. “Don’t worry,” he told Fedor. “We’re all ready for this.”

  “I know,” Fedor replied quietly. “I know we are.”

  Andrei turned and urged his comrades forward. “Come on!” he yelled, stabbing down at the beach with his sword. “This barren strip of land will be their first and last taste of Mother Kislev! Let us make them pay dearly for each yard!”

  The leading boats had run aground in the shallows of
the bay. Now the men of Odensk would come face to face with those who would take their land, their living, their lives.

  As one the villagers rose up to form a human shield. Together they would drive the invaders back into the sea, and the waters would run red with their blood.

  Figures were in the water, ploughing through the waves towards the beach. Fedor tried to take stock of their numbers and quickly lost count. Tens, dozens, it might be hundreds. The air around him sang with the sound of arrows being loosed, as all those nearby who carried bows launched the next attack into the swirling waters of the bay. Fedor saw several of the advancing figures stumble and fall beneath the onslaught. Countless other arrows found their mark, but seemingly made no impact. The invaders strode on through the waters oblivious to the arrow shafts lodged in their flesh, or tore out the wooden shafts from their bodies and tossed them aside as if they were no more than irritations.

  Any hope that the invaders could be forced back before they had got as far as the beach died there and then. Fedor Kumansky said his prayers to the gods and stepped forward towards the water’s edge. He thought about the life he was about to set behind him, a hard life of peaceful struggle and simple reward. He thought about his wife, lain six years in the cold ground. And he thought about his sons, Stefan and Mikhal, waiting on his safe return at home. He begged the Goddess Shallya for her vigilance in protecting them.

  He looked into the faces of his attackers. Surely they, too, must be men like he, men with homes and loved ones that they longed to see again. Surely some sense could still intervene before the madness engulfed them all.

  But Fedor Kumansky saw nothing of the kind. The faces that stared back at him had long ago been leeched of any vestige of humanity as he understood it. In fact, he was not certain if many of them were human at all. Most wore the coarse fur jerkins and horned steel caps of the Norse hordes, but on some the marks of mutation were clear. Stretched jaws gaped open to display rows of yellowed rodents teeth. Horns grown out of bone jutted through ruptured faces and foreheads. Skin sparkled with the chill lustre of the serpent’s scales. But one thing they had in common, every one: their eyes, vacant, almost unseeing, empty of compassion. They offered him no hope, no respite. This would be unto death.