Tales of the Old World

by Marc Gascoigne

  He threw another log into the stove, straightened the chair and rolled his blankets up. Then he picked up the maps van Delft had left him. The columns and lines that tattooed the soft leather remained clear and untouched by the hell their owner had been through, the leather still supple and well oiled. The priest picked up one at random, smoothing it out on the flat of his thigh. Although the square of its shape was slightly misshapen the texture was smooth, finer than any leather he’d worn before. The priest held it up to the light that spilled in through the doorway, tilting it this way and that against the shadows that still haunted the room.

  The detail really was incredible. But now that he looked, there was one flaw. It was a single, strawberry shaped smudge on the corner of one of them. The priest picked up the next one and found another imperfection. This one consisted of an arc of little curled hairs, golden blonde in the gathering sunlight.

  The next one was marred by a little indentation in the centre. An inverted button of leather, perhaps as big as his fingertips, the skin within had been compacted into swirls.

  The priest ran his thumb over it, wondering what it reminded him off.

  A rose, perhaps.

  No. No, that wasn’t it. It was something less fragile. Ah yes, of course. It was just like a belly button. Just like a…

  The potcheen soured in his stomach. His hands began to shake. Reluctantly the old man looked back at the unusual leather of these maps.

  Looked at the belly button that marked one. The birthmark that blemished another. The eyebrows that furred one edge of a third.

  And he realised that van Delft had brought him the remains of a body to be shriven, after all.

  Outside, the mist gave way to drizzle, which in turn gave way to the warmth of the sun. It warmed the fields and the cemetery and the stones of the shrine. It shone golden on the wet ivy and sent flights of sparrows wheeling up into the sky, born aloft by the joy of their lives.

  The priest, the rites of death completed, watched them. They scattered across the blue vault of the sky, tiny little sparks of happiness born up the warm, southerly wind that whispered gently through the greens of the forest below. He took a deep breath of clean air, only slightly scented now with the smoke of the funeral pyre and smiled as the first of the sparrows descended, drawn by the sight of the bread in his hand.

  “Yes, little friend,” he told it as it hopped forwards. “This world is a beautiful place.”

  He pursed his lips as it flew away. Then softly, as if he didn’t want the bird to hear him, the priest added the single word: “Sometimes.”

  TALES OF

  TRAGEDY & DARKNESS

  MORMACAR’S LAMENT

  Chris Pramas

  Mormacar was drowning in a sea of agony. Although he longed to surrender to the undertow and let the pain consume him, he continued to struggle towards consciousness. Far off he could hear voices but he couldn’t understand what they were saying. He strove to listen, to somehow bring the voices nearer. After a torturous struggle, the sea calmed, the voices became clear and Mormacar opened his eyes.

  “He’s awake,” a gruff voice said, “bring him some water.”

  Suddenly a cup was at his lips and water coursed down his throat. Although it was warm and stale, the water tasted sweet beyond words. He looked up into the scarred face of an old elf with tangled hair and only one ear, and asked in a cracked voice, “Where am I?”

  The old warrior looked down on him, pity on his face, and whispered, “I’m sorry, son, but you’re in Hag Graef.”

  Mormacar groaned and grabbed his throbbing head. He had thought it couldn’t get any worse. How wrong he was. Hag Graef was the most notorious of the dark elf slave cities, a city of doom and death where untold prisoners were worked to death and from which no one had ever escaped. He began to wish he had simply been slain in battle, along with the rest of his Shadow Warrior band. The Forsworn, however, missed no opportunity for cruelty, especially against their hated foes from Ulthuan.

  Sitting up, Mormacar looked about him. He was in a dark cell of crude stone, its floor covered with rank straw. He shared the cramped room with a dozen other prisoners, many elves like himself, but also some humans and dwarfs. All of his fellow prisoners looked dirty and weary and many bore bruises and welts, plainly gifts from their dark elf tormentors. A stout door closed them in and one sputtering torch added the smell of smoke to the stink of the windowless cell.

  “Rest now,” the old elf said. “You won’t get another chance.”

  “Thank you, brother,” the Shadow Warrior replied. “May the Everqueen bless you. I am Mormacar of the Night Stalkers. May I ask your name?”

  “Galaher,” the man said tersely.

  “Galaher?” Mormacar cried. “Surely not Galaher Swiftblade?”

  “Some used to call me that,” the scowling elf hissed. “Now I am just Galaher, a slave like you. Leave me be.”

  Mormacar was momentarily stunned and could not speak. Galaher Swiftblade alive! The Shadow Warriors had produced few greater heroes and he was long thought dead. Mastering himself, Mormacar reached out and grabbed Galaher’s arm. “Please forgive me if I offended you, Galaher, but everyone on Ulthuan thought you perished on Eltharion’s raid on Naggarond. With you alive, our escape is assured.”

  Galaher knocked Mormacar’s hand from his arm. “There is no escape from Hag Graef save death,” the old fighter replied, his voice hollow, “and only fools seek death.”

  Mormacar could hardly believe this was the same Galaher from the stories. His shock must have been plain, for Galaher’s face softened a little.

  “Be strong. Endure,” the elf continued. “And hope that Tyrion brings an army here and razes this place to the ground.” Galaher looked away, as if he searched his own soul for the dying embers of a long-held dream. “Any other course is pure foolishness.”

  Mormacar stared incredulously at the old elf. “I can’t believe you, of all people, are telling me to submit to the lackeys of the Witch King. Never! I will try to escape from Hag Graef, with or without your help!”

  “Then you’ll die,” Galaher said simply. Without a further word, the scarred warrior turned his back on Mormacar and crossed the cell.

  The young Shadow Warrior lay back, a storm of emotions coursing through him. It pained him to see one of the great heroes of his people dead of spirit, but he could not take Galaher’s advice. It was the duty of every elf to escape if captured by their ancient foes. Why couldn’t Galaher see that?

  Mormacar was so wrapped in thought that he didn’t notice another presence until a deep voice jarred him back to his senses. “The old elf’s fire died out long ago. Don’t waste your breath on him, elfling.”

  Mormacar slowly got to his feet, grimacing in pain as he drew himself up to his full height. “Who dares to insult Lord Galaher Swiftblade?” he said icily.

  Facing him was heavily-muscled human, who stood a head above the defiant elf and whose dirty face was framed by thick braids. “I am Einar Volundson of Jaederland,” the giant boomed, his Norse accent thick, “and I insult every member of your gutless race!”

  Before Mormacar could reply, one of the other prisoners near the door hissed, “Be silent, they are coming!”

  Everyone in the cell quieted. The Shadow Warrior and the Norseman stared at each other, their antagonism wordless yet potent. Outside, the thump of heavy boots echoed in the hallway. When the pounding advance stopped, the air was rent with the screech of grinding metal as a distant door opened. Then the screaming started.

  The Shadow Warrior looked at his cellmates, seeing the terror etched on their faces. He would die, he resolved, before he would live in fear of the dark elves. The heavy footsteps continued, at last stopping in front of their door of the cell. The prisoners looked at each other as keys clattered outside, but if they sought solace than they found none.

  The fear in the cramped room was palpable as the heavy portal swung open slowly to reveal three cruel-eyed dark elves. Their leader, a
tall woman clad head to toe in black leather, feigned demureness as one of her henchman mopped fresh blood from the front of her leather vest. She could have been beautiful, but her raven hair and striking features were mined by the twisted sneer on her pale face. Her gloved hands lovingly cradled a long whip, which seemed to writhe with a life of its own under her expert caress.

  Her henchmen, two lithe, heavily mailed guardsmen armed with ornate maces and wicked blades, barked in unison, “On your knees for the Lady Bela, scum!”

  The witch elf watched with pleasure as the prisoners fell to their knees. Mormacar hesitated for a moment, but complied when he saw even the cursed Norseman obey.

  Lady Bela walked slowly around the small cell, her boots clicking on the rough stone. She stopped in front of Mormacar, who met her stare with one of his own. “What have we here?” she purred as she stroked Mormacar’s face with a slender hand. “This one is still defiant.”

  “One of the new batch, mistress,” offered one of the guards. “We’ll break him soon enough.”

  Lady Bela stared at Mormacar, drinking up the hatred in his eyes. His skin crawled as her hand continued to caress his cheek. “Oh yes, I like this one. He’s got spirit.” Entwining her whip around his head, she tugged him closer. “Tell me, slave, what is your name?”

  “You’ll get nothing from me, you murdering bitch!” Mormacar shouted and spat in her face.

  The dark elf guards rushed forward, maces raised, but Lady Bela waved them away. Still holding the high elf with her whip, she pulled a long pin out of her hair and jabbed Mormacar lightly in the side of his neck. The Shadow Warrior jerked as his body was swept by a burning sensation. Then all feeling went dead and he could not move a muscle. Lady Bela smiled lasciviously and pulled a small blade from her belt. Seeing the blade, Mormacar strove to move, to knock it from her hand, but his body let him down and he remained as still as a statue.

  “That’s much better, isn’t it?” she asked, wiping the saliva off her face. “I must say I do have a weakness for the lively ones.” Her blade flashed out and slashed Mormacar’s chest. “They provide much better sport than these others, don’t you think, Rorga?” Again the blade swept down, this time cutting Mormacar’s ear. Her grin widened as she tightened the whip around his neck and pulled him closer still.

  “Yes, my lady, great sport indeed,” said one of the dark elf guards, staring meaningfully at the other prisoners. “Will he be the one then?”

  “A fair question, Rorga,” Lady Bela replied, pausing as if in contemplation before turning once again to her motionless prey. “What do you think, slave?” she asked Mormacar, with a cruel smile. The Shadow Warrior tried to speak, tried to scream out his defiance, but the witch elf’s poison was too potent and he could only gurgle in response. Lady Bela laughed. “Oh yes, slave, I agree completely.”

  The cruel witch elf knelt to inspect her handiwork. As the blood welled in the wound on Mormacar’s chest, she closed her mouth over it and drank greedily. Then she stood, smacking her lips contentedly. “It is always refreshing to drink blood that isn’t tainted by fear. A rare treat, Rorga, especially here at Hag Graef. I think I’ll keep this one awhile.” Lady Bela regarded Mormacar afresh and her eyes lit up with excitement. “In fact, dear Rorga, I think this noble elf is perfect for my plans. Victory must be assured, after all, and I fear I can’t count on Galaher anymore.”

  “As you wish, mistress. Who’s it to be then?”

  Lady Bela turned her attention away from the paralysed Shadow Warrior and looked over the rest of the prisoners, tapping her chin with a finger. She stared long at old Galaher. “You’d like to die now, wouldn’t you, sweet Galaher?” The old elf stared vacantly, and remained silent. “But no. While it is a tempting thought, one cannot be too careful where the gods are concerned.” She turned around. Elf, man, and dwarf shrank under her gaze, all trying to avoid catching her attention. Finally, her eyes settled on a swarthy human whose numerous tattoos bespoke years of piracy. “That one will do. Take him to Khaine’s altar.”

  The guards moved forward and seized the frightened prisoner. He began to scream and struggle but a few blows from the dark elves quietened him and he was dragged unconscious from the cell. Lady Bela once again regarded Mormacar, at last unlashing her whip from his unmoving form. Stroking his face as if he were a beloved pet, she purred, “I’ll be seeing you again.” Then she turned and strode from the cell.

  The other prisoners stared at Mormacar as if he were already dead.

  Mormacar worked in the mines, as he had every day for the past two weeks. As a pair of overseers looked on, the wretched slaves toiled in the near-dark, scrabbling out ore in the humid tunnels for the anvils of Hag Graef. Those prisoners who dropped from exhaustion and refused to rise had their throats slit by the dark elves. The lesson was not lost on the other prisoners. Nor could they help but notice that the prisoners’ ranks grew thinner each day, as more and more of their number were dragged off by the Lady Bela’s minions. Death hung like a pall over the squalid prisoners of Hag Graef, and most had become resigned to their fate.

  Mormacar refused to give in. His muscles quivered with hatred as he swung his pick into the hard rock, imagining that the unyielding stone was the soft flesh of the Lady Bela. Every day another prisoner was taken to Khaine’s altar. At night he saw their faces and heard their screams, but even in his dreams he was powerless to help them.

  But now his grim endurance was to prove its worth. While the Lady Bela had been engaged in her deadly work, Mormacar had slowly cut away at one of the support beams at his end of the long tunnel. This passage had been dug in haste, and the supports groaned under the weight of the rock overhead. Now one good blow would smash the weakened support beam and hopefully cause a cave-in.

  Mormacar swung his pick into the rock again, but scarcely paid attention to what he was doing. His attention was fixed on the hated overseers, who even now were striding down the tunnel to inspect the work. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the cursed Norseman working across the way and resolved to watch him closely. Humans were never to be trusted. Galaher, despite what he had said back in the cell, Mormacar knew he could trust. The old elf would come through in the end. He could feel it.

  When the overseers were scant feet away, Mormacar hefted his pick and smashed it into the weakened support beam. The beam shuddered from the blow and dust fell from the ceiling. Mormacar’s heart leapt, but his elation was short lived. The beam held.

  The overseers whipped their swords free of their scabbards. One of them spat, “That was your last mistake, slave,” and strode forward, blade at the ready. Mormacar hefted his pick, determined at least to die a warrior’s death.

  The other overseer followed his compatriot, but hissed, “Remember the Lady Bela’s orders!”

  “Damn that witch!” snapped the first dark elf, his voice hot with bloodlust. “This wretch is mine!”

  The tunnel was eerily quiet. All of the other prisoners had stopped their work, watching the unfolding drama with dumb fascination. Mormacar looked down the tunnel, hoping to see Galaher coming to stand at his side. But the old elf just stood and stared, his pick dangling from his weathered hands. Suddenly the silence was pierced by a echoing crack. Glancing to his right, Mormacar saw that the Norseman had smashed the weakened support beam on the other side of the tunnel. The beam shuddered and fell, loosing a rain of falling rocks.

  Mormacar instinctively leapt out of the way, but the dark elves, surprised by the falling debris, were knocked to the ground. Before they could rise, the Norseman and the Shadow Warrior were upon them. Mormacar smashed in the head of one of the dark elves, while Einar swung at the other, pinning him to the floor. The Norseman hurriedly stripped the dying elf of his sword and dagger.

  Above them the ceiling groaned menacingly. As uncounted tons of rock shifted and slid, dust and debris fell in streams. Mormacar turned to the stunned prisoners, most of whom still stood at their work stations. “Get out of here!” he yelled furio
usly.

  That was enough for most of them, who dropped their tools and ran up the tunnel. Mormacar and Einar followed them, grabbing torches from their wall brackets along the way. They ran desperately, hearts pounding, until at last they came to an intersection, where the ramshackle band halted to rest. A dull roar echoed up the tunnel, as more of the ceiling caved in behind them.

  The two warriors exchanged looks of grim satisfaction, pleased with their handiwork. Looking around at the other fugitives, the Norseman asked, “What now, elfling? Is this as far as your plan goes?”

  The Shadow Warrior answered without hesitation, “Now we follow the tunnels down and look for a way out.”

  “What do you mean ‘down’?” Galaher spoke up. “There’s naught down there but cold ones and endless tunnels. The best you can hope for is to starve to death. We must go up and try to find an escape route there.”

  “I know it sounds crazy,” Mormacar said, looking around at the desperate throng, “but I’ve thought this through. You yourself said there was no way out, Galaher. Now we’ve all seen dark elf war parties in the tunnels, haven’t we? Well where do they go? I think the Forsworn have an underground way through the mountains and I mean to find it.” His compatriots looked dubious, and shifted uncomfortably in the gloom. “Above are countless soldiers, thick walls and stout gates,” Mormacar continued, speaking quickly, as if he could feel the crowd slipping from him. “If you go up, you’ll surely die. My way we have a chance.”

  Chaos erupted as all of the fugitives began to talk at once. Mormacar tried to break in, tried to calm their fears and make them see sense, but had little chance as the panic-stricken fugitives babbled about what to do.

  Eventually, the Norseman lost his temper. “Shut up, all of you!” he bellowed, his angry words bringing immediate silence. “You’re acting like children. There are only two choices, up or down.” Einar pointed to Mormacar. “The elf and I go down. Who will join us?”