Tales of the Old World

by Marc Gascoigne

  Wooden shingles shifted under Jurgen’s feet as he stepped cautiously across the rooftop. He checked his movement for a moment, and then crept on more carefully, testing gingerly for loose tiles in the darkness with the point of his boot. His planning would all be for naught if he lost his footing now and plunged to become a bloody mess on the cobbled street below. The faint light emitted by a thin blade of moon, poised overhead like an assassin’s knife, picked out the edge of the building in front of Jurgen. He crouched down, crawling slowly to the lip of the two-story precipice. Jurgen looked down into the street briefly and then wished he hadn’t: he had never been much good with heights, which was a considerable liability in his chosen profession.

  Jurgen steadied himself, slowly unhooking a small device from his belt. It was essentially a compact, three-pronged grappling hook, to which was tied a length of slim and sturdy cord. It had taken almost an hour of cajoling, wheedling, and finally a sizeable deposit of gold before Konrad, a nervous, small-time fencer, had agreed to lend it.

  Taking a deep breath, Jurgen regained his feet and concentrated on the stone gargoyle on the roof of Grubach’s house opposite. He swung the hook around his head, letting it gather momentum before releasing it to glide across the intervening space. The grapple-iron looped about the statue and caught, one of the prongs finding purchase in the nostril of the hideous effigy. After testing the line, Jurgen secured his end of the rope to a disused flagpole.

  Jurgen tried to quell his quickening breaths as he pushed himself gingerly off the roof, dropping a few feet as the line adjusted to his weight. Sigmar save me, he thought, fighting to remain calm as he dangled two stories above the cobbled ground of the alley below. After a few deep breaths, Jurgen settled into a desperate rhythm of hand-over-hand for what seemed like hours, then suddenly found himself dangling against the opposite roof. Jurgen carefully lowered himself to the relative comfort of the tiles below him.

  He rested briefly before ascending the slate roof cautiously, to the point at which the roof-leak inside the house had been. Sure enough, some of the tiles had slipped, leaving a small cavity leading into the darkness of the building’s attic. Working carefully, Jurgen eased the surrounding tiles out of place, carefully piling them next to him until he had made a sizeable hole.

  Jurgen lowered himself though the hole into the cluttered darkness of the attic. After some careful blundering, he managed to find his way to the trapdoor leading down into the building proper. Easing the trapdoor up gently, he surveyed the room below. Lamplight emanated upwards from the ground floor, but Jurgen heard no sign of any occupants. He slithered through, pulled a knife from his jacket, and began a stealthy descent of the staircase, checking cautiously over the banisters for possible assailants; Hans, in particular, he was not keen to face. The room appeared empty, however, the only sign of any occupancy a single lamp burning on a table.

  Jurgen crept to the door Grubach had told him led to his office, listening carefully for sounds of occupancy. Once again, there was nothing. What in Sigmar’s name is going on here? Jurgen thought, as the unlocked door opened readily to his touch.

  Beyond lay a small office, containing a small desk holding neat piles of documents, and a large wooden cabinet. The cabinet had evidently been moved from its regular place, where it had concealed a sizeable wall safe which now stood open and empty but for a few papers. Jurgen was almost ready to weep with frustration—when he noticed a painting, about the size of a large child, which lay propped against a low table in a shadowy corner of the room.

  Jurgen carefully approached the painting. A strip of moonlight through a window provided no more than a glimpse of the subject contained within the gilt-edged frame: the green of forest trees, the pale pink of bare flesh, and then an angular face of raw crimson, staring insane and demented from the canvas. Jurgen shuddered and turned away, feeling nauseous. Steeling himself, he turned back to check the small signature in the bottom-right corner of the canvas, and made out the name “Sena Hals” penned in strange script.

  A sheet of black cloth on a table nearby made an adequate cloak for the grotesque painting. Jurgen shouldered his prize and proceeded towards the back door that led from the office to the street.

  As Jurgen moved to open the robust oak door, he noticed that it was already ajar, and swinging slightly in the autumn night breeze.

  Jurgen emerged from the building into a narrow lane, its cobblestones slick and gleaming in the moonlight. A light rain had started, and Jurgen had trouble keeping his balance on the slippery surface as he wrestled with his bulky load. As Jurgen stumbled along, he became suddenly aware, by the innate and indefinable sixth sense which had allowed him to survive thus far in his profession, that he was being followed. He took a quick glance over his shoulder, making out a vague blacker-on-black silhouette of a figure as it crept towards him.

  Jurgen slowed and peered ahead in the gloom of the lane’s end, although he already knew there would be at least one more in front; footpads rarely worked alone. The few Jurgen had ever associated with had been callous, spiteful, stupid cowards. Men who lived by preying on the weak, who all feared—despite their desperate bravado—ending up like their victims: trapped, friendless, alone, bleeding to death anonymously in some dark alley.

  There, a second, inching his way through the darkness. Jurgen stopped. He knew he couldn’t possibly escape carrying the painting. Yet he could not leave it. The painting was his new-found hope, a way to repay the borrowed time he had been living on. Jurgen backed up against the wall, awaiting a move from the strangers.

  The stalkers knew they were spotted and emerged from the shadows. There were only two, which at least Jurgen could be thankful for, and they appeared to be typical street thugs, though well-equipped. Their swords, drawn as they approached, were of a fine make, not the usual rough-hewn barracks-quality usually wielded by street ruffians.

  “Good job, Herr Jurgen,” the shorter man said, a menacing undertone belying the compliment. “We’ll handle it from here.”

  Jurgen had no doubt the man’s tone would not have altered one bit, were he to be uttering the phrase “Give us what we want and you won’t get hurt.”

  “What about my payment?” Jurgen spoke casually, desperately trying to formulate some kind of plan. “I’m not delivering the goods until I get what… what Romanov promised me.”

  “Very well. If you come with us to the count’s estate, you’ll get your payment there. You don’t expect us to carry that kind of money around, do you?” The short man smiled, or attempted to; a strange grimace strained his face. The taller thug, who seemed a little slow, guffawed at his companion’s wit.

  So Romanov is behind this after all, thought Jurgen; at any other time he would have felt pleased with his cleverness. But in the small thug’s facial contortions and hard, dark eyes, Jurgen knew that the only payment that would be made at Romanov’s manor would be with his own life. He had to get out of there fast. He did the only thing he could think of.

  “Here you go!” Jurgen hurled the painting towards the small man, and immediately sprang towards the tall hoodlum, smashing the surprised thug in the face with a quick jab. There was a crunch of cartilage. The man screamed as he reeled backwards, one hand flying to his shattered nose. Jurgen pressed home his advantage, drawing his knife and slashing in one quick motion. The man screamed again and collapsed to the ground, clutching desperately at his side.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jurgen saw the smaller hoodlum, who had dropped his weapon to catch the precious canvas, scrambling forward on his knees to retrieve his sword. Jurgen span and stamped down on the base of the blade, just as the man grasped the hilt. The thug looked up, fear and defiance in his eyes. Jurgen gritted his teeth and brought the pommel of his dagger down on the man’s head.

  Jurgen shook uncontrollably as he raced through the streets with his heavy burden, all caution gone. The immediacy of death never failed to make an impression on him. The two bloodied men he had left back there
would most likely survive; Jurgen was not in the habit of killing unnecessarily, and he did not intend to start now. He had two new enemies in Nuln, however, for men like that did not easily forget such moments of vulnerability.

  If he had been calmer, the thief would have been rather embarrassed to admit that he had not planned as far as where to go once he actually had the painting. So he stopped, gasping for breath in a shadowy doorway, and considered his options. He could not go to the inn he had been lodging at, nor any others, since the bulky package would start rumours flying immediately. All his regular underworld bolt-holes were off-limits, since there was no one he could trust not to hand him straight to Hultz, or even Romanov.

  Jurgen was stumped for a moment, the panic welling up inside like dark spring-water, and then he had it: the one place he could go, where no one would think twice about a man carrying a strange artefact. Jurgen grinned in the darkness.

  The university gatekeeper greeted Jurgen with a nod and detained him a moment with his latest joke, something vile about dwarf and halfling procreation. Jurgen hardly listened, just chuckled politely and strode into the academy, the man still chortling behind him.

  He made his way to the dormitory houses without difficulty, though several times he was amicably jostled by inebriated students returning from a long evening at the local tavern. Arriving at Klaus’ small dormitory house, Jurgen set down the painting and knocked heartily on the door.

  Movement sounded from within, but there was no further reaction. Sigmar, thought Jurgen, he’s probably completely smashed.

  “Come on, Klaus, it’s me! Open up!” Jurgen hammered again.

  It had been a long night; he was exhausted, frozen and scared. All of which might help to explain why not until the last, even after the door was flung open, after he was seized by rough hands and dragged into that nightmare room of blood and torment, did he suspect that anything was in the least amiss. By then, of course, it was too late.

  Two huge thugs gripped Jurgen’s arms, and he hung between them like a sack of grain. The small room was a shambles, although the violence done to the furnishings was minimal. There was some glass on the floor from a broken decanter, and some papers had also been trodden into the rug. It was the blood, which seemed to saturate every surface and piece of furniture in the room, which coated the floor and rug in a sticky mess, that created an impression of such brutal vandalism. The gore was from one source: Klaus von Rikkenburg II, who sat slumped in a bloodied mess, tied into a previously opulent chair by lengths of thin cord. Behind him stood Eretz Habemauer, the one Jurgen had known as “Randolph”, a gore-spattered pair of pliers in his hand and a pouting smile on his lips.

  “How fortunate! Who would have thought you would have friends in such circles, Jurgen? And you have brought a little present also, hmm?” Eretz gestured to a third thug, who lifted the cover on the painting for the noble to inspect. “Ah, how beautiful. Best put it away. Wouldn’t want to contaminate the precious thing now, would we?”

  The thing in the chair convulsed suddenly, then began moaning piteously. Jurgen’s heart turned over; poor Klaus was still alive! Eretz appeared to derive amusement from the display, for his pout became a wry smirk.

  “Your friend does have surprising endurance. Had you arrived earlier you could have enjoyed the show; I fear Herr Rikkenburg will not be with us much longer.” Eretz paused with mock regret. Jurgen’s tensed with rage. “Well, we had best be off. I think it’s time for you to meet the count.”

  “Can I…” Jurgen choked on his words, though with anger or sorrow he could not tell, “can I have…”

  “Hmm? Oh yes, of course. It must be very sad for you,” Eretz said, with the indifference of handing a coin to a beggar.

  Jurgen approached the mangled form of Klaus, who was suddenly beset with violent coughing. Jurgen bent to speak to his friend, though the right words escaped him.

  “Klaus… I’m… Sigmar!” Jurgen mumbled, his stomach turning. “I’m so sorry, Klaus.”

  The figure jerked his head up at the sound of Jurgen’s voice, its ruined face staring straight through him. “Jurg—” An explosion of coughing. “…Is that you?”

  “Yes, friend. I’m—”

  “Jurgen… the pain… it’s evil. Watch… blood, don’t let your bio…” Klaus’ body was wracked with an especially violent fit of coughing. When the attack ceased, the figure was still.

  The two thugs stepped forward and seized Jurgen, and he was led away. Away from the ruined room, and from his dead, ruined friend.

  Jurgen saw little of the Romanov estate, crammed inside a darkened carriage. The manor, however, he had ample time to survey as he was pulled forcibly from the coach and shoved up the wide entrance stairs. The exterior gave an impression of ageing splendour: a once-great edifice falling into disrepair, the combination of neglect and the passage of time taking their toll.

  The interior, in contrast, contained opulence the like of which Jurgen had never before set eyes on. Its crumbling passages were graced with a plush red pile carpet, and vivid tapestries and silks hung from the walls. The huge, antiquated rooms were decorated with chairs and couches with velvet upholstery, and strange sculptures and statuettes of exotic origin.

  Jurgen was led into a large study, with shelves of books lining all four walls and a fire crackling in a sizeable hearth. Reclining on an opulent chair with a large tome on his lap was a middle-aged man, tall, with dark hair greying at the temples. He turned towards the new arrivals with irritation.

  “Eretz, what is this?” the count—for Jurgen had no doubt this was he—spoke with annoyance, “What are you doing here?”

  “This is Jurgen Kuhnslieb, your lordship, the thief I hired.” Eretz spoke proudly, like a cat triumphantly depositing the corpse of a bird onto his master’s bedroom carpet. “He obtained the painting, and was attempting to keep it from us, as I predicted, when we intercepted him.”

  “You have the painting?” Romanov sat up, his eyes burning with sudden intensity.

  “I viewed it myself. We were… interrogating someone, a student, to find out what Jurgen was planning. I knew—”

  “Where is it, man?” The count stood impatiently.

  “Fyodor and Willem are preparing it as we speak.”

  Romanov nodded briskly and stalked past Eretz, who hurried after his master. Jurgen was shoved after them by his large minder.

  “So,” Eretz was gabbling, racing to keep up with Romanov’s long strides, “my spies followed the thief to a student’s house. I knew this scholar, one of the Rikkenburgs, from my studies. He had even given a dissertation on The Blessed Ones. I knew that as soon as this petty burglar found out about the true powers of the painting, he would try to take it for himself. I had to find out what he was planning.”

  The group reached a long set of stairs, and began the descent into the bowels of the manor. Eretz continued his report. “We were fortunate that the thief, having somehow evaded the men I set to tailing him, came straight to the student’s room with the painting just as we were finishing up! Of course, I had considered the possibility that he might return…”

  The count stopped and turned, directing a piercing look at his excited protégé. “You took a considerable risk, against my explicit wishes, doing this. You were extremely lucky that things have worked out as they did.” Romanov spoke briskly, with controlled malice. Jurgen seemed forgotten. There are more important things to consider now. “Be silent!”

  The party descended the remainder of the staircase in a hush, only the sound of their footsteps on the ancient stone filling the charged silence. At the base of the stairs, lit by guttering torches, stood a large wine-cellar, containing rows of dusty bottles on racks. Romanov gestured to Eretz, who walked sullenly to the opposite wall and lifted a small flagstone to reveal a short, steel lever. Eretz struggled briefly, then with a grating of stone on stone, a section of the cellar wall swung ponderously outwards.

  Beyond lay an unusual sight, a chamber of bea
uty and horror. One half of the room was adorned with the sweeping silks, extravagant furniture, and fine candelabras common to the rest of the manor.

  The other half, set on a cold stone floor, was filled with aesthetically-placed instruments of torture, Jurgen could discern a few of the usual suspects: the rack, vices designed to fit various appendages, and an iron maiden, its exterior decorated with a naked woman carved in alarming detail. Many of the remaining devices were far more bizarre and exotic, and Jurgen could only guess at their uses—though he suspected that guesses would soon be unnecessary.

  At the opposite end of the chamber, two men were carefully arranging the covered painting on a large easel, which stood before an altar of stone draped with a silk cloth.

  A small jade statuette of a beautiful androgynous figure, a cruel smile upon its lips, stood on the altar, its feet immersed in a low stone dish containing a dark liquid. Jurgen felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as a feeling of deepest dread filled him.

  Jurgen was manhandled over and deftly tied to a large crossbeam planted into the bare stone. At a gesture from Romanov, Jurgen’s minder exited the chamber, the stone door rumbling shut behind him. The count turned to Jurgen.

  “Listen carefully, vermin. You are about to witness something so wondrous I doubt your petty little mind can even comprehend it. Enjoy the privilege, for your death will soon follow, even as my everlasting life is assured.”

  Romanov turned away, and walked purposefully to the painting, the two servants respectfully standing aside. Meanwhile, Eretz had taken a short flaxen whip from a rack of tools on the wall, and was walking slowly towards Jurgen, a coy smile playing across his face.

  The first blow caught Jurgen unprepared. A casual flick of Eretz’s wrist sent the point of the whip stinging across the thief’s right cheek. Jurgen gasped and stifled a cry. A second flick lashed above his left eye, sending blood trickling down his face. This time Jurgen did cry out, equally from despair as from pain. Romanov, who had been stooped in an examination of the painting, turned in annoyance.