Tales of the Old World

by Marc Gascoigne

  At twenty-five the baron was entering the fifth year of his rule. A robust warrior, he was much loved by the people, like his father before him. The year had also seen a record harvest, the best the old farmers said, since they were but boys. The barrels were full of new wine, and along the river the mills ground a ceaseless supply of wheat into flour. Baskets seemingly overflowing with fruit could be seen stacked on every doorstep or rattling to market on the back of wagons.

  The baron was overjoyed with his realm. Everything seemed vital and alive, imbued with an astonishing fertility. This, it transpired, included his young wife, the Lady Isobella. A pleasingly attractive princess of the Estalian nobility, she was about to give birth to their first child.

  Her labour pains had started that morning. Ensconcing her in a specially constructed birthing chamber, the midwifes attended to her while the priests prayed to the Lady of the Lake for the baby to be born healthy, untainted and, most importantly, male. The baron, as was the tradition, was to spend the time in the banqueting hall. It was a shame that his old friend, Sir Gilles, would not be present. Still, with a wench on each arm and a never-ending supply of wine, the baron felt sure the birth would be over in no time.

  Elsewhere, the seeds of the baron’s undoing were not only sown, but had taken root.

  The baron had a sister, ten years his junior. Named Juliette, she was of the same healthy stock as he, though born of a different mother. It was universally agreed by approving men and envious women that she was possessed of great beauty. Always immaculately attired in gowns of flowing silk, she was elegant, demure and slim of waist. Her pale face was delicately featured, painted at the lips and eyes like the finest of masques. With her modest and chaste nature, she was the model of obedient womanhood, sought after by every unmarried nobleman in Bretonnia and beyond.

  The baron forbade her to attend banquets, for fear that the sight of such debauchery and routine debasement would corrupt her valuable innocence. Some would say later that this was not a little ironic. Counting Juliette amongst his many blessings, the baron looked forward to the day of her marriage and the excellent alliance it would surely cement.

  He could not have known then that his sister was already wed.

  Above the drone of the flies there was a chanting: clipped, harsh syllables, of no language Sir Gilles understood, but they possessed a rhythm he recognised, a dread cadence that pierced him to his heart with its evil intent.

  The entrance gave way to a wide corridor that led in turn to the main chapel. Within, the knight could see insubstantial shadows, cast by candlelight, slowly writhing. A stench assailed his nostrils, the scent of damp and decay and abandonment. For how long had these fiends been desecrating this holy place? So close to the Chambourt itself, it was not often used by travellers and pilgrims. He himself, amongst the most pious, had not ventured this way in over a year. However long it had been, it would end today.

  Shield up, sword at the ready, Sir Gilles stepped into the chapel.

  Dead animals. Rats, goats, dogs, sheep, all in varying stages of decomposition, piled high around the room. Dead priests, male and female, lay among them, some not long dead, others grey and rotting. The abominable centre-piece of the sculpture was the lone priestess of the chapel. A thin, middle-aged woman, her body hung by the neck from a rope fastened to one of the roof-beams. Stripped of her robes, the skin had been flayed from her bones, stopping only at the ligature that bit tightly into the skin beneath her chin. A gaping expression of pure terror was stamped on her ashen face. From the glistening blood on her muscle tissue, Sir Gilles guessed that she had been the last to die.

  Standing beside her, stroking the priestess’ cheek in a mockery of affection, was a man.

  A solid block of muscle, he was naked, blasphemous symbols daubed in blood on his body. Long, jet-black hair flowed over his taut shoulders. Eyes lightly closed, he continued to murmur foul homage to his Dark Gods. A blood-soaked, cruelly curved dagger lay at his feet.

  With a cry, Sir Gilles launched himself at the fiend.

  Eyes snapping open, the man moved with unnatural speed.

  Sir Gilles found his blade biting into the marble floor. Recovering his balance, he turned to face his foe.

  The man, if man he truly was, was standing a little way off, close to the rotting carcasses, rocking from side to side on the balls of his feet like a wrestler preparing to fight. He made no attempt to reach for the dagger. His dark eyes flashed with venom. An amused smile played on his lips.

  Cautiously, Sir Gilles squared up to the man. He was naked, unarmed and yet seemed more sure of himself than any opponent he had ever faced. Was it madness that produced such self-belief, or something else?

  Sir Gilles brought his sword back, then struck, this time anticipating the man’s agile dodge. The blade hit the man on the side just above his top rib, cutting him open.

  Clutching his wound, blood bubbling up between his fingers, the man staggered, knocked against the priestess, setting her gently swinging, and fell on his side. As blood pumped out of him, he started laughing gently, as though the blow had but tickled him.

  Kicking the dagger safely out of reach, Sir Gilles moved in to settle the matter. Something leapt at him from behind. From the shrill screams, he could tell that his assailant was a woman. She was unarmed, also, and wearing only a thin cotton robe. She clung with one hand to Sir Gilles’ back, while trying to claw at his face with the other. He shifted his weight and effortlessly threw her over him. She smacked against the hard floor, a bone in her leg snapping.

  She lay groaning, twisting in anguish on the floor. Nearby, her companion was still shaking with mirth. His wound, Sir Gilles noted with concern, no longer bled and was healing up. This man was well protected by his foul gods. The fire would be the only sure way of ending his evil.

  Working quickly, afraid that his quarry would soon recover, Sir Gilles set about tying him up, so as to deliver him to the baron. Considering her of little threat, he did not pay the woman much attention. She continued to squirm in pain, moaning softly.

  “Make it stop, make it stop…”

  The voice. The voice seemed familiar. Pulling the last of the knots tight, Sir Gilles stood up and crossed the chamber. He knelt by the woman, brushed the hair from her face and lifted her head up.

  The old knight caught his breath and whispered a prayer on the holy chalice.

  Staring at him with hatred and a snarl on her fair lips, was the Lady Juliette.

  Leaving his two prisoners with the castle’s militia, Sir Gilles strode into the banqueting hall. A grave expression on his face, his tabard flecked with the blood of beastmen, revellers heads turned to stare at him as he walked the length of the table. By the time he had reached the baron all merry-making and conversation had ceased. “If I may speak with you, my lord…”

  Full of wine, the baron refused to believe the knight at first. “My sister sleeps in her room,” he guffawed. “As she has done every night.”

  Sir Gilles laid a hand on his master’s shoulder.

  “Not every night, I fear,” he said.

  The baron understood the situation soon enough when he was shown to the cell holding his sister. She was huddled in the corner of the room, broken leg lying at an unnatural angle, hateful eyes shining from the gloom. When the baron approached, she hissed and spat like a cat.

  “Show me the fiend responsible for this outrage,” the baron said, his voice shaking with anger. “And I will have his head.”

  The dark-haired man was altogether calmer than his bride. Clothed now in sack-cloth, he sat against the wall of his cell, a serene smile on his lips. Flanked by crossbow-wielding guards, the baron confronted him.

  “What manner of daemon are you?”

  “None, sir.” The man spoke in a deep, steady voice. “I am a man like yourself.”

  “That I doubt. From where do you hail, witch?” The man gave a vague wave of his hand.

  A headache banging behind his eyeballs from the
wine, the baron massaged his temples with one hand. “Do you, then, have a name?” The man gave no answer.

  The baron was not one to pander to such games. “No matter,” he said, coldly. “My torturers will have it from you before long. And after that, you will burn.”

  The witch finders set about their task with consummate zeal and efficiency. When the stranger was next brought before the baron, his body was broken, if not his spirit. His long hair had been shaved down to the scalp with a blunt knife. Dried blood congealed over his face and ears. He was missing his top row of teeth. His back flapped open, raw from flogging. But, like the wound in his side, of which no sign remained, the man’s body appeared to be healing rapidly. Of small consolation to the baron were the two fingers that the shears had taken. Although hours had passed, they remained stubborn stumps. So he could be hurt. He would be hurt.

  The baron, gazing levelly from his throne at the wretched sight before him, ordered the two guards holding the man by his arms to relinquish their grip. The witch did not topple forward as expected, but stood, swaying, his eyes regarding his tormentor defiantly. He spoke mockingly in a clear voice.

  “Sir, I feel I must thank you. The pain your lackeys have inflicted upon me is but a small price to pay for the months of nocturnal pleasure your sister has bestowed upon me.”

  The baron leapt from his seat, half jumped down the steps and struck the witch across his face, hard with his gauntleted hand. The man staggered back, laughing, fresh blood pouring from a cut over his eye.

  “I would kill you here with my bare hands,” bellowed the baron, “if the law did not demand that you, like all your diseased kind, should be put to the fire.”

  “Oh, sir, sir…” the witch cooed. “Rest assured I will not burn. My master’s game will not allow it. I am to be the bane of your life. You do not even begin to comprehend the horror of which I am capable.”

  The baron found himself unable to look for long upon the man’s face, lest he catch sight of himself in eyes as jet-black and soulless as a viper’s.

  The witch cupped his hand to his ear as though listening for something. A childish grin spread across his face. “Oh, sir. I believe congratulations are in order. You are a father at last. And it is a boy.”

  In the wake of the terrible events, the baron had forgotten about his wife’s confinement. Before he could react, a lad, son to one of the midwives, came scampering into the throne-room. He gave a hurried, unpractised bow and said, excitably, “My lord, my mother bids me come tell you the glad tidings: that my lady has been delivered of a son.”

  Ordering the guards to clamp themselves back onto the prisoner, the baron strode towards the door. Struggling against his captors, the witch started to laugh once again.

  “Baron! Hear me!” he screamed. “By the Dark Gods I lay a curse upon your house! I will take everything from you, in time. First, though: your wife!”

  The baron started to run.

  “Go!” the witch shouted after him. “But you are too late. My master’s work is already done.”

  The midwives and servant-girls crowded round the newborn, cooing in adoration. None of them thought to check on the baroness. The baron burst into the chamber.

  Responding to his presence by casting their eyes to the floor, the women curtsied and murmured respectfully.

  Rushing to his wife’s side, the baron took her hand in his. Her head turned slowly to face him. Though drawn and tired from her ordeal, she wore a contented smile.

  It was then that he noticed the blood at the corner of her mouth. It trickled out, a small amount at first, but grew steadily. The baroness appeared not to notice, but continued to stare beatifically at her husband.

  “Help her,” he said, unable to raise his voice above a hiss. The servant-girls looked up. “Help her.”

  Her head fell onto one side, a dead weight. Blood seeped slowly out, soaking into the pillow and onto the sheet. Her body went limp. But for the soft whimpering from the servant-girls, there was no noise.

  The baron freed his hand from his wife’s lifeless fingers. Numb and shaking, he crossed the room and picked up the child. He held it to his breast. A boy, thanks be to the Lady. A son. An heir.

  The baron went immediately from the chamber, channelling his grief into thunderous anger. In the cell, he rained blow after blow against the witch’s body. Throughout it all, the fiend made no sound.

  At last, breathing hard, exhausted, his knuckles scuffed and bleeding, the baron stopped.

  The witch sat up, as though refreshed, one eye completely closed with bruising.

  “You have a healthy son, my lord,” he said. “Such a shame that his life will be so short.”

  Powered by grief and fear, the baron launched himself again at the witch, pinning him to the wall by the throat.

  “You will speak no more!”

  From his belt he took a dagger and, forcing the witch’s jaws apart, worked his way inside the mouth, cut and carved for a second, then stepped back.

  The witch slumped against the wall, blood cascading from his mouth. His face was slack but his eyes still shone with mirth and malice.

  While these events had been unfolding, a crowd of the kingdom’s finest scholars had been gathered about the Lady Juliette. By now almost mad with grief, the baron received their report in a state of great agitation. “How fares my sister?”

  All reluctant to speak, Blampel the beak-nosed physician was nudged forward. One hand adjusting his skull-cap, he muttered a curse intended for his craven colleagues.

  “I fear the news is not good, my lord,” he said at last.

  The baron nodded at him to elaborate.

  “The lady has lost her mind. Human speech and reasoning are beyond her. Never before have I seen madness consume a person so swiftly.”

  Stroking his neatly-trimmed beard with a hand still spattered with the witch’s dried blood, the baron said, “And what of her dabbling in witchcraft? Is she an innocent party or am I to put my own flesh and blood to the flame?” He looked across. “Tertullion?”

  The portly mage, who had been hiding at the back of the group, guzzling from a wineskin left over from the banquet, shuffled drunkenly forward. He dabbed at his food-encrusted whiskers and steadied himself against a pillar. “My lord. As my friend, the learned man of medicine, has already rightly diagnosed, the Lady Juliette is quite insane. I am of the opinion that because of this, her innocence or otherwise in this matter is now an irrelevance. Any of the Dark Ways that may have been imparted to her by her foul consort are now surely lost, along with the rest of her humanity.” This was typical of Tertullion. Long-winded, wordy. And wrong.

  For come the dawn, the guards found within the cell, not the witch but the Lady Juliette, her state of mind greatly improved. Somehow fully clothed, she stood holding the trail of her silken dress up, so as to avoid the filth of the floor. Giggling like a young girl, she uttered a single dark word.

  Two of the guards fell, screaming, to their knees, eyeballs liquefying, bubbling from the sockets. The third guard, swinging blindly with terror, lopped her head neatly from her body. Escaping from her neck with a hiss like steam, blood sprayed the dirty walls and showered the straw-strewn floor.

  Blinking blood out of his eyes, the petrified guard stared at the crumpled body before him as it twitched its last. Juliette’s head lay at an angle, partly obscured by the straw, her fine, dark hair framing an expression of surprise.

  The witch, her master, was not to be seen for many years.

  Though he was born into a house of sorrow, the baron’s son, also named Gregory as had been the custom for the first-born son for ten generations, grew into a healthy and well-adjusted boy. His father put at his disposal the finest academics. He soon became the first male member of the line who could read and write, and in several languages, too. But it soon became apparent that the warrior-blood burned brightly within. As adolescence approached, it was to jousts and sword-play that he turned. Even the books he read were tomes
dealing with tactics and warfare.

  Eager to encourage this aspect of his son’s life, the baron put him under the tutelage of Sir Gilles. Though already into his fourth decade at the boy’s birth, his sword skills knew no equal and, in the trials, he could still keep several far younger opponents at bay. But it was his tales that made Gregory love him.

  Gilles’ questing had taken him all over the Old World and beyond. He had fought alongside dwarfs against orcs and goblins in the World’s Edge Mountains, done battle with Sartosan pirates, slaughtered beastmen and mutants within the forests, even driven a skaven horde back into the heart of its foul subterranean nest. Every time Gilles spoke of these adventures, Gregory’s face lit up in rapt attention.

  Shortly before his twelfth birthday, he asked Gilles why he was not allowed to leave the castle.

  “That is your father’s decision,” Gilles said in his soothing, deep voice. “And you would do better not to question it.”

  But something in the Grail Knight’s pale, blue eyes, told the young heir to do exactly the opposite.

  “You have been filling his head with your tales!” the baron roared. Gilles, kneeling before the throne on the flagstones, lifted his bowed head.

  “I meant no harm by it, my liege.”

  The baron, about to shout again, felt suddenly foolish. He put one hand against the side of his head, where the hair had already grown prematurely grey.

  “Get up, old friend,” the baron said, sadly. “I am sorry.”

  Gilles got to his feet and looked his master steadily in the eyes. “No apologies are necessary,” he said. “But I must ask you why you are so opposed to your son’s request?”

  “Because I will not allow him to leave this castle,” said the baron. “And this hunting party he craves? Into the forest? No.” He sighed wearily, adding, “It is for his own protection.”

  “That is as maybe,” Gilles said. “But do you not think it more dangerous to cosset the boy, to leave him ill-prepared for the dangers he may face?”