Tales of the Old World

by Marc Gascoigne

  Hoffman, deciding that the merchant had cracked up, began to quickly shinny back up the rope.

  “Don’t move or I’ll cut it!” Reinhard snapped.

  Hoffman stopped, his hands gripping the hemp as he glared up at the silhouetted figure above. “Alright,” he said, trying to keep the rage out of his voice. “No problem. You can keep the coin. There’s no sign of anything down here anyway.”

  Reinhard laughed, a shrill sound that soon turned to sobbing.

  Hoffman, so gently that the rope barely moved, began to slide surreptitiously back up towards him.

  “This isn’t about the coin, you fool,” Reinhard shouted down. “This is about my father. You murdered him. You and that bastard Schilburg. And all for what? A few lousy barrels of tannin.”

  Hoffman crept further up the rope, pausing every time he thought that Reinhard might be paying attention. It was damned lucky that the man’s insanity had taken the form of hysterics.

  “You’re wrong, Menheer Reinhard,” Hoffman shouted up. “I have never killed any of your family. The man Schilburg paid me to… to talk to someone who was called Klumper. Otto Klumper.”

  “That is my name too,” Reinhard said, suddenly sounding very tired. “Just as it was the name of the man you murdered. So you see,” he smiled a death’s head grin, “there are vermin in the well after all.”

  And with that he sliced through the last of the rope. Hoffman screamed as he fell, although not for long. There was a booming splash as he hit the water, and then the churning desperation of an armed man trying to tread water.

  The man who had called himself Reinhard looked down into the darkness. Hoffman, it seemed, wasn’t above begging for his life, but soon his pleading turned to gurgling as, weighed down by the tools of his trade, he sank into the icy embrace of the water.

  The merchant sat in the silence that remained until the eleven o’clock cannon boomed out from the gunnery school. Then he roused himself, took a final look into the still depths of the well, and went back out into the street.

  It was a fine day and, for the first time in a long time, he had one hell of an appetite.

  TALES OF

  DECEIT & OBSESSION

  ROTTEN FRUIT

  Nathan Long

  It isn’t often a man gets to witness his own hanging, but Reiner Hetsau was being given the privilege. He didn’t much care for it.

  It was a week after the battle of Nordbergbusche, where Reiner and his companions had helped Count Manfred Valdenheim reclaim his family castle from the Kurgan who had occupied it since the Chaos invasion. This despite the fact that Manfred’s younger brother Albrecht had turned on him, attacking him with two thousand troops, all under the spell of the cursed banner Valnir’s Bane, which had turned them into bloodthirsty automatons. If Reiner and his companions hadn’t slain Albrecht and destroyed the banner, the day would have been lost. And for this great service to Manfred and the Empire, Reiner and his companions were to hang. At least it was to appear.

  “Poor damn butcher lambs,” said Giano, the Tilean mercenary, as he peered through the slats of the louvre-windowed coach Reiner shared with his fellow condemned. Pavel, the scrawny pikeman, swallowed and blinked his one good eye. “There but for the grace of Sigmar…”

  Reiner nodded, squinting at the scene outside. The coach sat amidst Manfred’s retinue of twenty knights in the square before the Middenheim gaol. A great crowd surrounded them, all looking towards the gallows in the centre—a gallows that could hang five at once. The crowd was in a cheerful mood. There was nothing like a hanging to break up the monotony of rubble clearing and rebuilding that had become the daily life of Middenheim, the site of the final battle of Archaon’s aborted invasion. Sellers of pinwheels and sweetmeats wound through the crowds, while on the gallows, five frightened men with passing resemblances to Reiner and his companions were about to dance on air.

  “Why do I feel guilty it isn’t us up there?” asked Franka, a dark-haired archer who only Reiner knew was not the boy she pretended to be.

  “Because yer a soft-hearted fool,” said Hals, a bald, jut-bearded pike-man. “They’re villains. They’ll be guilty of something.”

  “But not guilty of what they’re to hang for,” Franka pressed. “They’re being hanged for looking like us.”

  “They’re being hanged because Manfred doesn’t want his family name besmirched by his brother’s infamy,” said Reiner. He affected Manfred’s statesmanlike tones: ‘It would not do for the citizenry to believe their betters could be corrupted as Albrecht was.’ Reiner snorted. “I’m sure if Albrecht were someone else’s brother, Manfred wouldn’t be so concerned with the morale of the citizenry.”

  A drum roll began. The crowd fell silent. Reiner and his companions stared through the narrow louvres.

  On the gallows, Middenheim’s chief magistrate read the charges as Manfred and a host of dignitaries looked solemnly on. “Reiner Hetsau, Hals Kiir, Pavel Voss, Giano Ostini, Franz Shoentag, you are charged with the foul murder of Baron Albrecht Valdenheim; of bewitching his troops by means of heathen sorcery; causing them to attack his brother, Count Manfred Valdenheim, thereby bringing about the deaths of countless innocent men. For these and sundry other bestial crimes you are to be hanged by the neck until dead. May Sigmar have mercy on your souls.”

  As the hangman pulled sacks over the condemned men’s heads, Reiner looked at the man chosen to be his replacement, a debauched-looking villain with a pencil-thin moustache. Reiner wasn’t flattered by the comparison.

  Beside him, Franka sobbed. “He’s only a boy.”

  Reiner looked at the lad who had been picked to die for her. It was doubtful he’d seen sixteen summers. He wouldn’t see seventeen.

  The drums stopped. The trap banged open and the five men dropped and jerked at the end of their ropes until the hangman’s apprentices jumped up and hung from their knees. The crowd cheered.

  “There’s another five deaths on our consciences,” sighed Pavel.

  “Speak for yourself,” said Hals. “I put ’em square on Manfred. He’s the one ordered ’em hung.”

  But why he’d hung them instead of us, thought Reiner, is that we’re too damned clever for our own good. Manfred had gone to the trouble of all this subterfuge because he had been impressed by the guile Reiner’s companions had demonstrated in their defeat of Albrecht, and wanted to employ it for himself. As he’d told them, winning battles was not the only way the Empire stayed strong. There were less honourable deeds that had to be done to keep the citizenry safe, deeds no true-hearted knight could undertake, deeds only blackhearts could stomach. Reiner and his companions were those “Blackhearts”.

  So Manfred was having them “executed” so that they would be invisible men—perfect spies who did not exist in the eyes of the world. But because he also feared they might abandon their new duties at their earliest opportunity, the count had insured their cooperation by magical means.

  “We are just as much hanged men as those poor devils,” said Reiner. “For the cursed poison Manfred put into our blood is a noose around our necks—and he could drop the trap at any time.”

  Outside they heard Strieger, the captain of Manfred’s retinue, call “Forward!” and the coach lurched into motion. As they rode out of the square Reiner took a last look at the five hooded bodies swaying in the breeze.

  They were travelling to Altdorf, where Manfred had a townhouse and where he advised the Emperor on matters of state. Locked in the louvred coach, the Blackhearts saw the passing world as dim light, shadow and sound. At least they were alone, with no one to overhear them, and this allowed them to plot their escape, however fruitlessly.

  “Why not we kill the mage who know the poison spell?” suggested Giano.

  “Manfred would get another, and have him unleash the poison,” said Reiner.

  “What if we broke the mage’s fingers until he removed the poison?” asked Hals.

  “And if he said the spell that killed us instead of t
he spell that freed us, would you know the difference?” countered Reiner.

  Pavel folded his arms, “Alright then, captain, what do we do? Let us poke holes in yer ideas for once.”

  “Well,” said Reiner, leaning back, “perhaps we could pay a hedge witch to remove the poison.”

  “If we could find one, and that would require a lot of gold,” said Franka. “Something we are sorely lacking.”

  Reiner nodded. “True. But fortunes change. While helping Manfred we may find opportunity to help ourselves.”

  “But a hedge witch could cheat us as well,” said Hals. “He could spout any sort of mumbo jumbo and we wouldn’t know if he’d removed the poison until we tried to run and fell dead on the spot.”

  And on and on it went, an endless circle of argument as monotonous as the sound of the wheels rolling below them. Only occasionally would the monotony be broken when Reiner would look up to find Franka’s eyes hot upon him. She and he had first shared that look after they had killed Albrecht. Since then, each time they locked eyes, visions of Franka’s lithe body stripped of her boyish trappings danced through Reiner’s head. But even these pleasant dreams led to frustration, for none of the others knew Franka was a woman, so their desire could not be acted upon, and the cycle of lust stirred followed by lust denied became as grinding and dull as everything else.

  The agony continued for three days, with the Blackhearts only let out of the coach when the company made camp. Then, on the third afternoon, the sudden booming of the coach wheels rolling over wood woke them from their stupor.

  All five crowded to the slatted windows. The narrow view told them little more than they were crossing over a drawbridge into the courtyard of a castle. After a moment the coach came to a stop amid hails and responses from Manfred’s retinue and the house guards.

  One voice rose above the rest. “Count Manfred! Well met, my lord.”

  “And you, Groff,” came Manfred’s voice. “I see you survived the troubles.”

  “Barely, my lord. Only barely.”

  The coach door was unlocked and the guard in charge of the Blackhearts’ transport, a sour veteran named Klaus, swung it open. “Fall out, vermin,” he growled. “And no nonsense. We’re staying with quality tonight.”

  “We’ll be on our best behaviour,” said Reiner stepping out. “Lay out my finest suit and ruff, won’t you, Klaus?”

  “That’s just the sort of thing I’m talking about,” snarled Klaus.

  “We were hit very hard, my lord,” Groff was saying. He was a short, dark-haired man with a flabby, careworn face. “We held supplies for Baron Hegel’s cannon, and somehow the devils got wind of it. Tried for three days to get in before Boecher’s garrison came up and chased them off, by the grace of Sigmar. But by then three-quarters of my men died, and as you can see…”

  Groff gestured around at his castle, which was in terrible disrepair. Crews of peasants laboured to close up holes in the outer walls that one could have led a company of lancers through, but they were making little progress. The roof of the stables had burned, and one of the turrets of the keep had collapsed, and now lay across the courtyard like the corpse of a dragon.

  “But we seem to have bested one evil only to have another spring up. Indeed, I am glad you have graced us with your presence, m’lord, for something’s brewing in the forest that I would have you warn Altdorf about.”

  Manfred looked up. “Remnants of the Chaos horde?”

  Groff shrugged. “Something in there is carrying off the villagers and driving the woodsmen mad. And they’re getting bolder. I’d appreciate you asking Altdorf to send reinforcements. We’re in no state to face any—”

  “Right, you lot,” said Klaus at Reiner’s side. “We’ve got your lodgings sorted. This way.”

  But before they could follow, there was a clatter of hooves at the gate and everyone turned to face the potential threat. It was a single horseman, a flush-faced youth in black and silver with fevered excitement in his bright blue eyes.

  “Father!” he cried as he reined his horse to a halt. “Father, I saw a white stag in the woods just now. It was beautiful. You should hunt it with me.”

  Manfred’s knights relaxed. Their hands dropped from their hilts.

  Groff looked embarrassed. “Udo, pay your respects to Count Valdenheim. My lord, may I introduce my son, Udo.”

  Udo dismounted and bowed distractedly to Manfred. “My lord count. Welcome to our humble house.” He turned back to his father. “So, may we have a hunt, father?”

  As Klaus led the Blackhearts away, Reiner looked back to see Lord Groff bowing Count Manfred towards the main door and shooting angry looks at his son. Udo seemed oblivious. He followed his father into the keep with a faraway smile on his too-red lips. It looked like he had been eating cherries.

  That evening, Reiner and his companions ate in silence with Klaus and the castle’s servants, more interested in hot food than conversation after their claustrophobic journey. The servants talked enough for all of them anyway.

  “Hans the baker disappeared last night,” said a serving maid. “Third this month.”

  The groom snorted. “Disappeared? Everyone knows where he’s gone. Off into the woods.”

  The cook nodded. “His woman said he woke up from a dead sleep sayin’ he heard music, and ran off, naked.”

  Reiner was busy trying to think of a way to be alone with Franka that night. They would be back in the coach on the morrow and he had no idea how they would be lodged in Altdorf. Tonight could be their only chance at intimacy—their only chance even to speak privately.

  “Tain’t funny, young Grig,” said a burly huntsman to a giggling young footman. “Those fools are dangerous as well as mad. They’d eat you as soon as look at you. And the wood ain’t the same neither. The trees are changing. Honest Drakwald oaks growing thorns and…” he made a face, “fat purple plums. It ain’t natural.”

  “If there’s a danger in the forest,” asked Hals, his garrulous nature surfacing, “why are yer walls still all a jumble?”

  “There’s not many left to build ’em, sir,” said the footman. “The war took so many. The village was nearly deserted even before this business in the woods begun. Now—”

  “Even the bandits what used to steal our sheep are leaving,” said the cook.

  “And what with m’lord’s lady taken away by fever,” said the groom. “And young master Udo taking on so queer…”

  “There’s nothing wrong with master Udo,” barked a long-faced fellow who hadn’t spoken before. Then he chuckled, trying to smooth over his outburst. “The boy’s moon-eyed over a girl in the village is all.” He winked. “She wears him out.”

  “He don’t go to the village, Stier,” said the groom. “He goes to the woods.”

  “Don’t talk of what you don’t know, boy,” Stier snapped. “I’m his manservant. I think I should know what he does.” He stood, stiff. “It will be time to serve the port. Come, Burgo.”

  The footman wiped his lips and joined Stier as he unlocked the wine cabinet. They selected a few bottles, and went upstairs.

  Reiner stared at the cabinet. They had left it open. He smiled.

  “You lot are lucky they ain’t got a full complement of servants,” said Klaus as he herded them into a below-stairs dormitory. “You’d be sleeping in the stables else.” He turned on Reiner. “And I’ll be right outside the door, you, so no sneaking out windows, no sneaking in serving girls, no gambling with the grooms. We’re on our best behaviour. Understand?”

  Reiner looked suddenly contrite. “Actually, sergeant, if I might have a word alone, I have a confession to make.”

  Klaus sighed and beckoned him into the hall, then closed the door behind them. “What is it now, Hetsau?”

  Reiner slipped a bottle of wine from under his jacket. “Well…”

  “What’s this?” asked Klaus suspiciously. “You trying to bribe me?”

  “Bribe you?” said Reiner, astonished. “Sergeant, bribery
was the furthest thing from my mind, I assure you.”

  “Then…?”

  “I, er, well, I nicked this to share with the lads, but your admonitions have shamed me, and I want you to return it to its rightful place. I don’t want to embarrass Manfred with any bad behaviour.”

  Klaus looked longingly at the bottle. “Why, that’s damned decent of ye, Hetsau. I’ll put in a good word for you with Count Manfred for this.”

  Reiner gave Klaus the bottle. “I was just hoping you wouldn’t report me.”

  “No fear,” said Klaus, not taking his eyes off the bottle. “No fear.”

  Later, after the other Blackhearts had gone to sleep, Reiner slipped out of his cot and peeked into the hall. He was gratified to see Klaus sprawled in his chair snoring like a lumber mill, the wine bottle empty beside him. Reiner tip-toed to Franka’s bed and shook her gently. Like a good soldier, Franka came awake without a murmur, merely opening her eyes and reaching for her dagger—which she didn’t have, as Manfred had disarmed them.

  Reiner put his finger to his lips and nodded towards the door. Franka looked around, frowning when she saw the other Blackhearts still asleep.

  “What’s this foolishness?” she mouthed.

  He winked and motioned to the door again. Franka hesitated, then, with a shrug, swung out of bed and joined him at the door. They eased out together.

  Reiner led Franka quietly through the dark hallways and twisting stairs of the silent castle until he found the musicians’ gallery above the main hall. He pulled her in and crushed him to her, kissing her passionately. She resisted at first, surprised, but after a moment the tension went out of her arms and her lips parted. They melted into each other, as if the boundaries between them were blurring. Franka moaned in her throat and her hands ran down Reiner’s back. Reiner gripped her hips and pulled her into him.

  “Wait.” Franka was suddenly pushing back, her hands on his chest.