Tales of the Old World

by Marc Gascoigne

“Are you all right?” Mikhal asked him.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” Stefan said. In fact he could not remember ever feeling worse. He hoped that once he started walking his limbs would return to normal. He took a few steps forward, trying to ignore the pains and the revolting filth that covered every inch of his body.

  The door of the salting house hung open, flapping to and fro in a gentle breeze. Stefan was just able to make out the faint scent of burning wood that hung still on the air, reminding him of bonfires on the Feast Days. He took Mikhal’s hand, and led him outside.

  The sun had not yet risen over Odensk. The light was cold and grey, misted with the smoke from dying fires. But even in this half-light Stefan could see enough to realise that the village he knew had gone.

  His first thought was of the fire in the hearth when he and his father got up at first light. All around him, fires smouldered and cooled.

  The village was no more. Where wooden buildings had stood, only blackened piles of debris remained. Only those few buildings made from brick or stone had survived. The wind swept dunes of pale grey ash along the street.

  Stefan searched with his brother through a cold new land. Up the path that led from the salting house, towards the square in the centre of what once had been the village of Odensk.

  Around a bend in the path their search came to an end.

  Stefan grabbed at Mikhal to hold him back, but he was too slow.

  “He kept his promise!” Mikhal shouted. “He promised to come back!”

  Even before Mikhal’s shouts of joy had turned to howling despair, Stefan knew what they had found. He knew, too, that the door that led back to his old life, his child’s life in Odensk had shut forever; that in a moment he would have no choice but to step through a door into another life altogether. The grey dawn was giving birth to a cruel new world.

  Stefan advanced a few more steps and sank to his knees in front of the figure lying outstretched before them. Mikhal was sobbing now, pounding the hard ground with his little fists in grief and rage, but, for the moment, Stefan did not hear him.

  He had seen death before, seen it reflected in the glass-beaded eyes of the fish spread in rows across the wooden slats. But this was different.

  “You’re right,” he whispered to Mikhal. “He kept his promise to come back.”

  Stefan’s fingers closed upon the silver icon clutched in his hand, but the goddess had no comfort to offer him. He looked to the sky, the pitiless grey sky stretching out above them, and said a silent prayer.

  He looked again at death, and death looked back at him through his father’s eyes.

  Nothing in his life, not even the horror of that last, long night, had prepared Stefan for this. He wanted to understand how this could be, how the world that had kept him safe from harm through all his years could now have dealt so savage a blow.

  He wanted to howl with rage, to beat against the cruel earth like Mikhal had done; but that belonged on the other side of the door that had closed behind him. And he wanted revenge, desperate bloody revenge, upon the men, the monsters, that had destroyed his life. But that lay beyond the door through which he had yet to pass.

  He lifted Mikhal gently to his feet. Gradually the convulsions racking his brother’s body subsided.

  “Stefan,” he said, his voice choked with tears. “Will things always be like this?”

  “No,” Stefan replied at last. He took his brother’s hand and held it tight inside his own. His wound hurt, a burning, stabbing pain. But Stefan knew that he must bear it, for pain would be his companion now.

  “Things won’t always be like this,” he whispered. He held Mikhal within his arms, rocking his little brother to and fro as their father used to do. “Nothing lasts forever.”

  “Where will we go now?” Mikhal demanded of him, his voice beseeching. Stefan shook his head, slowly. He did not know where they would go, but he knew that he alone would have to decide. Gently, he pulled his brother away from their father’s body and started back towards what once had been their home. After only a few moments he realised it was futile. Their home was gone; it lay with childhood in a place that existed only in the past. Now they must walk the path that led to the future. Now they must walk the path of warriors.

  Stefan Kumansky stopped and looked around him. To the north lay the sea, and the cruel lands from whence the tide of death had swept through their village. That would not be their path; not yet, at least. He turned away from the sea, away from the ruins of Odensk, and faced inland.

  “Come on,” he said gently, taking Mikhal’s hand. “It’s time.”

  Together the two boys took the first steps along the road that lead to the place that Stefan still knew only as the World. The first steps along the long road that would lead to vengeance.

  RAT TRAP

  Robert Earl

  Hoffman cut an impressive figure. His boots glowed with a deep polish and his baggy trousers were of smoothly brushed moleskin. An embroidered tabard encased the barrel of his chest, and although the sleeves of his shirt were fashionably loose, there was no mistaking the slabbed muscle beneath.

  As well as his tailor, the swordsman was obviously a friend to his barber too. Only careful work could have made such a proud shape to his beard, and his scalp was shaved as smooth as wax with barely a nick to be seen.

  Yet, for all that, Hoffman was no fop. Far from it. His eyes were alive with a restless intelligence and he wore his sword like a workman’s tool.

  “Herr Hoffman?” Reinhard asked as he approached his table.

  Hoffman looked up to study the newcomer. He wasn’t much to look at. Just one of the thousand flabby merchants that thronged the streets of Nuln.

  Hoffman took his pipe out of his mouth and blew a smoke ring. “And what if I am Hoffman?” he asked as the smoke dissipated. His eyes had become cold, evaluating, and it occurred to Reinhard this was a truly dangerous man.

  At least, that was what he had been told.

  “My name is Reinhard. Reinhard Bosse. Somebody said that I might find you here and… Well, look, let’s have a drink, shall we?”

  Hoffman nodded. He watched the merchant hail a serving wench, his features smooth with disdain.

  “Thank you,” Reinhard said as the girl brought over two flagons of wine. He seized one and drank thirstily. When he had finished he banged it down and wiped his mouth with a velvet sleeve.

  “So,” Hoffman said, his own drink untouched before him. “To what do I owe the honour, Herr Bosse?”

  “Oh, call me Reinhard. Everybody does.”

  Apart from me, Hoffman’s frown said.

  “Yes, well. You see, it’s like this. My family are in the tanning business. Maybe you’ve heard of us. The Bosses of Gunwald? No? Well, no matter. The thing is, my sister has always been quite jumpy. You know, afraid of the dark, screaming when one of the servants drops a pot, things like that. And servants will break pots. It’s amazing how they get through them, really. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever dropped a pot in my life. Although, to be fair, I don’t suppose I’ve carried as many as…”

  “Herr Bosse,” Hoffman’s voice was quiet. “Why have you come to see me?”

  “Oh, yes. Right. Sorry. It’s just that I haven’t been sleeping very well lately and… Right. So this is why I’ve come to see you.”

  Reinhard broke off and took a long, gurgling swig of wine. He sighed as it hit the spot. Then he saw the expression on Hoffman’s face, and quickly started to explain.

  “It all began about a month ago. My sister was in the courtyard, drawing up a bucket of water from a well, when she dropped the bucket and started screaming. I’d never heard anything like it. I mean, I told you she shrieks when she’s surprised, but not like this. It was horrible.”

  Reinhard broke off and finished his flagon of wine. His eyes slipped towards Hoffman’s full one and the swordsman, curious in spite of himself, slid it across the table.

  “Thanks,” Reinhard said, a guilty look in his eyes.<
br />
  “What,” Hoffman asked as his host drank again, “did she see?”

  “Oh, it was nothing. Nothing. You know how women are. It must have just been her reflection in the water at the bottom of the well. Maybe a mouse or something. But what she thought she saw… well, it’s ridiculous.”

  “What did she think she saw?” Hoffman’s tone had become as cold as the steel he wore on his belt.

  “Well,” Reinhard lowered his voice and looked embarrassed. “A monster. Something from one of the nursery rhymes our grandma used to tell us. These things, I can’t remember what she called them, they were like rats. Only as big as men. And as cunning. Just stories to frighten us when we were naughty, you know the kind of things.”

  “Yes,” Hoffman said. He stared through the merchant and into the world of memory. “Yes, I know the sort of things.”

  “Of course it’s all ridiculous. We told her so, too. Mother even lost her temper in the end, shouted at her to stop being so silly. So then she started sobbing. It all gave me such a terrible headache. In fact I’ve still got one now, a little. I can feel it right there, just between my eyes. It’s all too much, really it is. I’ve got to think about prices, markets, wages. And now this.”

  Hoffman watched Reinhard pinch the bridge of his nose and blink back tears. Pathetic. “So what did you do about this thing she thought she saw?”

  “Do? Well, nothing. What can you do? Bertha’s just highly strung, that’s all. We all are. Our late father’s artistic temperament coming out, I’m afraid.”

  Reinhard smiled wanly.

  Hoffman regarded him with ill-concealed contempt. “He was a tanner and an artist?” the swordsman asked.

  “In a way,” Reinhard nodded. “In a way. You should have seen him in action, Herr Hoffman. He could sell anything to anybody. I remember once, there was this countess…”

  “Is this relevant?”

  “What? Oh. No. No, I suppose not. Anyway, where was I?”

  Hoffman felt his patience beginning to crack.

  “Oh yes, that was it. So anyway, Bertha wouldn’t listen to reason. So she started living in her chambers, refusing to drink water out of the well, arguing with mother. Terrible arguments. But then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, one of our servants got the idea that she’d seen one of the things as well. Oh, Sigmar, after that the whole household started to collapse. And now the men are refusing to use the well to get the water for the tanning pits. Say they’re afraid of the monsters. I told them, I said if there were human-sized rats with teeth like chisels lurking in the shadows don’t you think somebody would have seen them by now?”

  “Were they reassured?” Hoffman wanted to know.

  Reinhard shook his head miserably. “No. See, there were a couple of fellows have gone off over the past month or so. Just upped and deserted us. The tanning business isn’t for everyone. But all of a sudden everybody seems to have decided that they were eaten by Bertha’s ratfolk. I tell you, I’ve reached my wits’ end. Constant arguing in the house, nobody to cook the dinner or do the laundry, and now even the business is in peril.”

  Reinhard drained the last of Hoffman’s wine and signalled for more.

  “I can see you’re upset,” Hoffman told him as a girl brought more drinks over.

  “I am, Herr Hoffman, I am. Anyway, that’s why I’ve come to see you. Schilburg the baker said that you helped him out once when he had a problem. Something about some merchant who he had a disagreement with?”

  “Ah yes,” Hoffman smiled. “Him.”

  For the first time the mercenary picked up his drink. Somehow Reinhard knew that it wasn’t to celebrate anyone’s good health.

  “Well then,” Reinhard continued. “What I was thinking was that, if you were to come back and climb down into the well, you could reassure everybody that there are no monsters down there. No tunnels leading away from the well shaft or anything.”

  Hoffman put his tankard back down and looked into it thoughtfully. “That’s all?”

  “Yes. Oh yes. I’m sure that that will be enough to put everyone’s mind at rest. It will be a quick and easy job for you, too. Just pop down a rope ladder with a lantern, then come back up again.”

  “If it’s so easy, why ask me?” the swordsman wanted to know. “Why not do it yourself?”

  “Oh, well. You know.” Reinhard looked shifty, and fiddled with his goblet. “I’m not as fit as I was. And anyway, if there was something down there, not that there is, I mean, but if there was…” He trailed off and hid his embarrassment behind a swig of wine.

  Hoffman looked at him with the easy contempt of the strong for the weak.

  “I see,” he said. “Very well, I think that I can accept this contract. However, it will cost you. Monsters or no, my clothes will have to be replaced after splashing around in a well. And as well as that, of course, we will have to agree on a bounty for anything that I do find down there.”

  “Yes, of course,” Reinhard said, relief lightening his face. “Of course. We’ll pay you a fair wage for popping down and having a look. In fact, I doubt if even twelve coppers would be too generous.”

  “Ha!” Hoffman barked with false laughter. “Twelve crowns, more like.”

  The two men ordered more wine and settled down to haggle.

  The next morning Hoffman rose with the sun. Blinking in the light that flooded his attic room, he pulled on his breeches, and staggered down into the courtyard of the inn. He plunged his head into a barrel of icy water to clear his hangover, then looked around the yard.

  To his surprise, Reinhard was already there. The merchant stood by the stables, nervously wringing his felt hat.

  “Good morning,” he said when he caught the swordsman’s eye.

  Hoffman just grunted. “Got the money?” he asked.

  “Oh yes. It’s all here.” The merchant lifted up a leather purse. It clinked reassuringly. “Shall we make a start now, Menheer Hoffman?”

  “You’re keen.”

  “Sooner this is over with the better,” Reinhard said.

  Hoffman shrugged. He had intended to call on a couple of friends of his, men with whom he’d worked in the past. But now that he thought about it, why bother? In the clear light of day all this talk of fairy tale monsters seemed even more ridiculous. Better just to do this coward’s work for him, take the money, and find a decent cookhouse for breakfast.

  “Wait here,” he told Reinhard. “I’ll get my weapons and be down in a moment.”

  The merchant nodded and shifted from foot to foot as the swordsmen went to fetch his gear. When he returned he was armed with half a dozen scabbarded blades, the belts fastened over a sleeveless leather jerkin.

  “Come on then,” he told Reinhard. “Let’s go.”

  The merchant looked impressed as he set off, leading the mercenary through the twisting streets and gathering crowds of Nuln. In the distance the first series of booms from the gunnery school started to drift through the chill morning air, and the smells of frying sausage and freshly baked bread began to weave through the stink of the night soil. Then the smell changed, growing acrid as the two men entered the tanners’ quarter.

  “What is that stuff you use?” Hoffman asked, his nose wrinkling.

  “Oh, all sorts,” Reinhard said. “Mainly bark and fermented urine.”

  Hoffman adjusted his leather jerkin and wished he hadn’t asked.

  The smell grew stronger until they reached the merchant’s workshops. They went through a door that led off the street and into a courtyard beyond. Sheds stood on three sides, and on the fourth a wood-beamed house rose up above the complex. Between it and the gate stood the well.

  “So this is it?” Hoffman asked as he prowled towards the circle of masonry. A timber frame stood above it, and the winch for the sunken bucket was fastened on one side. The swordsman peered cautiously into the depths of the well. There seemed to be nothing down there but cold and the faint glitter of water.

  Reinhard joined him, looking n
ervously over his shoulder.

  “Shall I winch you down, or do you want a ladder?” the merchant asked.

  Hoffman blinked with surprise. “Don’t you want to wait for your men to turn up?” he asked, glancing around the deserted yard.

  “No, I can do it. And anyway,” Reinhard continued, a certain bitterness creeping into his tone, “none of them will come back until you’ve gone down and come back up again.”

  Hoffman snorted. “Just fasten the winch handle and I’ll shin down the rope,” he said. “Quicker we get this over with the quicker I can eat. And just to remind you, it was six crowns we agreed on, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh yes,” Reinhard nodded, his eyes never leaving the blackness of the well. “Six crowns. It’s all here.” He jingled the coin pouch reassuringly.

  “Good.” Hoffman leapt nimbly onto the wall that edged the well and watched the merchant fasten the winch handle. When it was secure he took the rope in one hand, tested it, then swung out over and into the darkness below. He caught the rope between his heels and shinned easily down into the depths.

  As soon as he entered the darkness, a chill of captured night bit at him. He shivered, and the bare flesh of his arms was soon stubbled with goose bumps.

  When he was about half way down he stopped, dangling on the rope as easily as a spider on a thread, and listened. Below him the only sound was that of moisture dripping down into the well. He looked down at the glimmering liquid beneath his feet, then gazed up at the circle of sky that lay above. It was a perfect “O”, broken only by the silhouette of Reinhard.

  Hoffman was about to carry on down when something about that silhouette made him look up again. A sudden jolt of fear flashed through him as he saw what was wrong with it. The arm that reached out to the rope wasn’t there to steady it. On the contrary. As Hoffman squinted up, he could clearly see the glittering blade of a knife lying across the hemp.

  “What are you doing, you damned fool?” he roared, the stone-lined sides of the well turning his voice to thunder.

  By comparison, Reinhard’s voice was little more than a squeak. “Justice,” he said.