Tales of the Old World

by Marc Gascoigne

  The daemon’s insane gibbering brought Thulmann back to his senses. The witch hunter returned his gaze to the loathsome creature and the fool who had called it from the Realm of Chaos. Atop Gerhardt Knauf’s body, a skull dripped the last of the warlock’s blood and rivulets of meaty grease; the body beneath had been stripped to the breastbone. The whisper of a scream seemed to echo through the garret as the last shards of the warlock’s soul fled into the night. The pink daemon rose from its gory repast and turned its fiery eyes upon the witch hunter.

  Thulmann found himself powerless to act as the daemon slowly made its way across the garret room. The preternatural fiend moved in a capering, dance-like manner, its glowing body brilliant in the darkness, sounds of lunatic amusement emanating from its clenched, grinning jaws. The daemon stopped just out of reach of the witch hunter’s sword, settling down on its haunches. It trained its fiery eyes on the scarlet-clad Templar, regarding him with an unholy mixture of hatred, humour, and hunger.

  Thulmann forced himself to meet that inhuman gaze, to stare into the swirling fires that burned from the pink face, forced himself to match his own faith and determination against the daemon’s ageless malevolence. Thulmann could feel the orange light seeping into his mind, clouding his thoughts and numbing his will.

  With an oath, the witch hunter tore his eyes from those of the daemon. The horror snarled, no longer amused by the novelty of the witch hunter’s defiance.

  The daemon launched itself at Thulmann, its mouth still wet with the warlock’s blood. Thulmann dodged to his left, the quick action sparing him the brunt of the daemon’s assault, but still resulting in the unearthly creature’s claws scraping the witch hunter’s ribs. Clenching his teeth against the painful wound and the daemon’s icy touch, Thulmann lashed out at the beast as it recovered from its charge.

  A grip of frozen iron closed around the wrist of Thulmann’s sword arm even as the heavy butt of the witch hunter’s pistol crashed against the leering head of the horror. The daemon glared into Mathias’ face and uttered a sinister laugh. Again, the witch hunter dealt the monster a blow that would have smashed the skull of any mortal creature. As Thulmann brought his arm back to strike again at the grinning daemon, his nightmarish foe swatted the weapon from his hand, sending the pistol hurtling down the stairway.

  The daemon’s gibbering laughter grew; it leaned forward, its grinning jaws inches from Thulmann’s hawk-like nose. The witch hunter pushed against the daemon’s frigid shape with his free hand, desperately trying to keep the ethereal jaws at bay, at the same time frenziedly trying to free his sword arm. Thulmann’s efforts attracted the daemon’s attention and, as if noticing the weapon for the first time, it reached across Thulmann’s body to remove the sword from his grasp. Luminous pink claws closed around the steel blade.

  The smell of burnt metal assaulted Thulmann’s nostrils as the keening wail of the daemon ripped at his ears. As the horror’s hand had closed about the witch hunter’s blade, the daemon’s glowing flesh had started to burn, luminous sparks crackling and dancing from the seared paw. The daemon released its grip on Thulmann and scuttled away from the witch hunter, a new look in its fiery eyes. A look Thulmann recognised even in so inhuman a being: fear.

  The daemon’s left hand still gave off streams of purplish smoke, its very shape throbbing uncontrollably. The daemon looked at its injured paw then returned its attention to its adversary. The daemon could see the growing sense of hope, the first fledgling seed of triumph appearing in the very aura of the witch hunter. The sight incensed the daemon.

  Thulmann slowly advanced upon the beast. The witch hunter had gained an advantage, he did not intend to lose it. But he did not reckon upon the creature’s supernatural speed, or its feral rage. Before Thulmann had taken more than a few steps towards it, the daemon sprang from the floor as though it had been shot from a cannon. The monster crashed into Thulmann sending both man and fiend plummeting down the stairs.

  Mathias Thulmann groggily tried to gain his feet, ears ringing from his violent descent. By some miracle he had managed to retain his sword. It was a fact that further infuriated his monstrous foe. The daemon scuttled toward the witch hunter. Thulmann struck at it, but the attack was a clumsy one, easily dodged by the luminous being. The horror responded by striking him in the chest with a powerful upswing of both its arms. The witch hunter was lifted off his feet, hurled backward by the tremendous force of the daemon’s attack. Thulmann landed on the final flight of stairs, tumbling down them to lie broken and battered in the foyer.

  At the foot of the stairs, the witch hunter struggled to rise, groping feebly for the sword that had landed beside him. He watched as the giggling pink daemon capered down the stairs, dancing in hideous parody of the revellers of Kleinsdorf. Mathias summoned his last reserves of strength as the daemon descended toward him. With a prayer to Sigmar, the witch hunter struck as the daemon leaped.

  A shriek like the tearing of metal rang out as Thulmann’s sword sank into the daemon. The blade impaled the horror, its body writhing in agony before bursting apart like a bubble rising from a fetid marsh. A squeal of venomous rage rose from the daemon, shattering the glass in the foyer’s solitary window. Tiny sparks of bluish light flew from the point of the daemon’s dissolution. Thulmann sank to his knees, thanking Sigmar for his deliverance.

  Daemonic laughter broke into Thulmann’s prayers. The taste of victory left the witch hunter as he saw the two daemons dance towards him from the darkness of the foyer. They were blue, goblin-sized parodies of the larger daemon Thulmann had vanquished, and they were glaring at him with looks of utter malevolence.

  The foremost of the daemons opened its gigantic mouth, revealing the shark-like rows of serrated fangs. The blue horror laughed as it hopped and bounded across the foyer with frightening speed. Holding the sword before him, Thulmann prepared to meet the monster’s attack.

  Thulmann cried out as a torrent of pain wracked his body. Swift as the first daemon’s movements had been, the other had been swifter still, circling the witch hunter as he prepared to meet its companion’s attack. Unseen, the blue horror struck at the witch hunter’s leg, sinking its fangs through the hard leather boot to worry the calf within. The intense pain made Thulmann drop his weapon, his only thought to seize the creature ravaging his leg.

  The blue thing gave a hiccup of mock fright as Thulmann’s hands closed around its scintillating form. The witch hunter tore the creature away from his boot and lifted the daemon over his head by its heals, thinking to dash its brains against the floor. In that instant he realised the trickery the beasts had employed. Scuttling across the floor, its over-sized hands dragging the sword by the hilt, was the other daemon. The monsters had taken away his only weapon.

  The horror in Thulmann’s hands twisted out of his grasp with a disgustingly boneless motion, raking its claws across his left hand as it fell to the floor. Giggling madly, the blue daemon danced away from the witch hunter’s wrath, capering just beyond his reach until its companion returned from secreting his sword.

  The two monsters circled Thulmann, striking at him from both sides at once, slashing his flesh with their claws before dancing away again. It was a slow, lingering death, like a pack of dogs tormenting a tethered horse because they do not know how to make a clean kill. Thulmann bled from dozens of wounds. Most were only superficial, but the pain caused by their infliction was intense. Every nerve in his body now writhed at the slightest touch from one of the daemons.

  Thulmann’s eyes fell upon an object lying upon the floor, its metal barrel reflecting the unearthly bodies of his tormentors. The pistol their unholy parent had taken away from him. If it had not discharged or otherwise been fouled by its violent descent, perhaps the witch hunter could find escape from his agony. Trembling with pain, Thulmann reached for the gun.

  One of the daemons slashed the man’s cheek as he stooped to retrieve the weapon. Dancing away, the creature laughed and brayed. It licked its fanged mouth and turned to rejo
in its comrade in their amusement. It did not see the figure emerge from the darkness, nor the brilliant steel blade that reflected the light of its own glowing body.

  The second monster sank its teeth into Thulmann’s wrist. How dare the human think to spoil its fun? The blue fiend kicked the pistol away, turning to rake its claws through the shredded cloak that covered Thulmann’s mangled back. The daemon leapt away in mid-stroke, turning to the source of the sight and sound that had alarmed it. In the darkness, the sparks and spirals of luminous smoke rising from the death of the other blue horror were almost blinding. The beast scrambled toward the being it sensed lurking in the shadows, eager to rend the flesh of this new adversary who had vanquished its other half. A rusted wooden hatchet sailed out of the darkness, smashing into the snarling daemon.

  “The sword,” gasped Thulmann, again reaching for his pistol. “Use the sword.”

  The remaining fiend rose swiftly, its fiery eyes blazing. The daemon lunged in the direction from which the attack had come. It was a fatal mistake. The small creature’s hands closed upon the naked blade, sparking and sizzling just as its parent’s had. As the blue horror recoiled from its unpleasant surprise, its attacker struck at its head with a sweep of the blade, finishing the daemon in an explosion of sparks and shrieks. Unlike the pink monster, no new horrors were born from the deaths of its lesser offspring.

  “You are mine to kill, Thulmann,” a cold voice from the shadows said. “I’ll not lose my vengeance to anyone else, be they man or daemon!” The witch hunter laughed weakly.

  “You shall find your task much simpler now, avenger. My wounds prevent me from mounting any manner of capable defence.” A venomous note entered the witch hunter’s voice. “But you would prefer butchery to a fair duel. That is your idea of honour?”

  Reinhardt glared at him, tossing the witch hunter’s sword to Thulmann. Thulmann shook his head as he gingerly sheathed the weapon with his injured hand.

  “I could not hold that blade with these,” Thulmann showed the enraged noble his bleeding palms and wrist, “much less combat an able swordsman.”

  Reinhardt glared at the witch hunter contemptuously. His gaze studied Thulmann before settling upon the holstered pistols on the witch hunter’s belt.

  “Are you fit enough to use one of those?” the youth snarled.

  “Are you skilled enough to use one?” Mathias countered, slowly drawing one of the weapons and sliding it across the floor. Reinhardt stooped and retrieved the firearm.

  “When you see hell, you will know,” the youth responded. He waited as the witch hunter lifted himself from the floor and slowly drew the remaining gun. As soon as he felt the witch hunter was ready, the youth’s hand pointed at Thulmann and his finger depressed the pistol’s trigger. There was a sharp click as the hammer fell upon an already expired cap.

  “Never accept a weapon from an enemy,” Thulmann said his voice icy and emotionless. There was a loud explosion of noise as he fired the weapon he had retrieved from the base of the stairs and holstered while Reinhardt still fought the last daemon. Reinhardt was thrown to the floor as the bullet impacted against his shoulder. Thulmann limped toward the fallen noble. The witch hunter trained his eyes upon the man’s wound.

  “With a decent physician that will heal in a fortnight,” the witch hunter said, turning away from his victim. “If we meet again, I may not be so restrained,” Thulmann added as he made his way from the house.

  Reinhardt von Lichtberg’s shout followed the witch hunter into the street.

  “I will find you, Mathias Thulmann! If I have to track you to the nethermost pits of the Wastes, you will not escape me! I will find you again, and I will kill you!”

  And the people of Kleinsdorf continued to dance and laugh and sing as they celebrated the triumph of light over Chaos.

  WHO MOURNS A

  NECROMANCER

  Brian Craig

  The funeral cart made its slow and steady way up the hill towards the Colaincourt Cemetery. The day was grey and overcast, and a cold wind blew from the east. The man who drove the cart and the companion who sat beside him both bore sullen scowls upon their faces, and the two dappled black mares which pulled it held their heads very low, as if they too had lost all enthusiasm for the work which was their lot. Behind the cart walked a solitary mourner, incongruous in his isolation.

  The lone mourner was Alpheus Kalispera, High Priest of Verena and Magister of the University of Gisoreux. When he went about his normal business he commanded respect and was treated with due deference, but in his present role he drew hostile glances from all those who watched the cart go by. There were not many; although Lanfranc Chazal had been an important and well-respected man in his prime, that prime was now long past, and Chazal’s reputation had been badly tarnished in his later years.

  Kalispera walked rather painfully. He was old and his joints were very stiff. He kept his hands carefully within the folds of his cloak, for the cold made his gnarled fingers ache terribly.

  When the cemetery gates finally came into sight a company of small boys ran from one of the side-streets, hurling mud and stones at the coffin which rested on the cart, crying: “Necromancer! Necromancer!”

  Kalispera rounded on them, and would have spoken angrily, but they hared away as fast as their thin legs would carry them. To abuse an alleged necromancer was to them an act of great daring, even if the man be dead in his coffin, unable to answer the charge in any way at all.

  A sallow-faced priest of Morr waited by a freshly-dug grave, quite alone. Even the sexton had taken care to absent himself from the ceremony of interment. Kalispera frowned—there should have been two priests, at least. He had been here many times before to see officers of the University laid to rest, and had been witness to occasions when scholars of far less status had been laid to rest by three officiating priests, attended by half a hundred mourners.

  The magister took up a position opposite the priest, who stared at him while the two carriers manhandled the coffin down from the death-cart on to the ropes, then lowered it with indecent haste into the pit which had been made ready for it. It was all too obvious from the man’s manner that the priest was here under protest, bound by the vows he had taken—which would not let him refuse to conduct a funeral service if he were so instructed. Kalispera felt the man’s stare upon him, full of hostility, but he would not bow his head yet. Instead, he met the gaze as steadily as he could.

  The priest took objection to this refusal to be ashamed. “Who mourns a necromancer?” he asked bitterly. “It would be best if I were left to do this sorry task alone.”

  “I was his friend,” Kalispera said evenly. “I had known him since childhood.”

  “Such a man forsakes all claims of friendship and amity when he delves into forbidden lore,” the priest answered him. “This man has sought to deal unnaturally with the dead, and should be shunned by the living—especially those who deem themselves priests of Verena.”

  “He himself has joined the ranks of the dead now,” Kalispera observed, refusing to be stung by the insult. “He is but a memory to the living and, of all the memories which I have of him, by far the greater number are happy ones. I have come to say farewell to a man I have known all my life, and I will not permit the fact that he has lately been abused by foolish and malicious men to prevent me from doing so.”

  “But you have come alone,” the priest replied sourly, gesturing about him. “It seems that all the others who knew him when they were young have a keener sense of duty to the cause of righteousness.”

  Kalispera could not help but look around, though he did not expect to see any others hurrying to the place. He sighed, but very quietly, for he did not want the priest of Morr to know how disappointed he was. All but a few of the magisters of the university had known Lanfranc Chazal for many years, and had liked him well enough before the evil rumours had taken wing like a flock of Morr’s dark ravens. He had thought that a few might be prepared to set aside the vilifications an
d accusations, for the sake of remembrance of better times. But the university was, as ever, a fever-pit of jealousies and intrigues, in which reputations were considered very precious things, not to be risked on such a chance as this.

  Kalispera felt a moment of paradoxical gratitude for the fact that he was old and far beyond the calls of ambition. It was all too probable that the next Magister of Gisoreux to ride up the hill on the creaking death-cart would be himself.

  “Please proceed,” he said to the priest. “You will be glad to get it over, I know.”

  The priest frowned again, but consented to let the magister have the last word. Sonorously, he began to intone the funeral rite, consigning the body of unlucky Lanfranc Chazal to the care of his stern master.

  But Morr’s officer was barely half way through the ceremony when there was a sudden clatter of hooves in the gateway of the cemetery, and though propriety demanded that neither of them should look up, both priest and magister glanced sideways with astonishment.

  A huge bay, liberally flecked with sweat, was reined in not thirty feet from the grave. A man leapt down, patting the trembling horse upon the neck to offer thanks for its unusual effort—it was obvious that it had ridden far and fast. The newcomer was a man in his late twenties, plainly dressed, without livery or ornament—but he strode to the graveside with the pride and grace of an aristocrat. He favoured the priest with a single glance of haughty disapproval, but looked at Kalispera longer and far more respectfully. In fact, he nodded to the magister as if he knew him and expected to be recognised in turn, but Kalispera could not immediately put a name to the face.