Tales of the Old World Read online

  The huge pistolier dragged Otto to the shelter of some large boulders and prepared to defend him. With the death of the Duke, however, what little fight there had been in the Bretonnians was gone. Some few of the determined knot of men which the Duke had rallied had broken through and spurred back down the road. Some others, lightly equipped squires, had somehow swam across the river and were fleeing away over the hill to the other side, but very few. It had been, as Lutyens had predicted, butchery.

  Otto gradually came to his senses. He was propped against a boulder and looking out on a river where a raft of drowned men and horses had jammed against jutting rocks. Struggling to recall what had happened he turned to the bank and saw hackbut men laughing, already stripping the dead.

  He looked himself up and down. He was drenched with blood and wondered vaguely if was it his own. He felt a sudden rush of weakness and leant back against the warm stone, staring down at his bloodied sword.

  Gradually, Otto remembered his struggle with the Duke and looked to where the crumpled body of his foe lay. So this was victory. So much for honour!

  Dazed, he struggled to stand up, leaning heavily on his sword. He remembered Molders and Lutyens and wondered what had happened to them.

  He found them sitting by the river, Lutyens bathing his captain’s badly bruised head with his soaking neckerchief. Molders looked pale and rather dazed but otherwise fine; at any rate, his chin was still thrust firmly forward. Lutyens looked up, grinning again; action obviously improved his spirits. Addressing Otto, the big pistolier said, “You look more stunned than the captain and your head is intact!”

  Otto slumped onto a rock, shrugged and gestured weakly around him with his sword. “I didn’t expect this,” he mumbled.

  Molders met his eyes and suddenly, in spite of his pop-eyes and spade beard, he seemed less ridiculous to Otto. The captain said softly, “My first battle wasn’t what I expected either.”

  “I have been so wrong,” the young noble went on. “So many mistakes!” He sat down facing Molders. “You have done the Empire a great service, Captain Molders. And you, Lutyens, you’ve now saved my life twice and I have never even thanked you. How dishonourable!”

  “Dishonourable?” Molders asked. “There is more honour in a man admitting his errors and facing them, than in his battling a hundred foes. I owe you my life and the Graf will be proud of you. No, sir; your honour is intact.”

  “Yes,” agreed Lutyens, stepping over and thumping Otto on the back, making him wince. “You fought by your code, remember?”

  The blond giant paused and looked Otto in the eyes. “I think you will always fight by your code,” he stated seriously.

  Then stepping back, he added with a guffaw, “But in spite of that, we’ll make a soldier of you yet!”

  THE DOORWAY BETWEEN

  Rjurik Davidson

  “I want them dead and my property returned to me.” Baron von Kleist leaned forward as he spoke, the light throwing shadows across his thin face. He was a tall, gaunt man fast approaching middle age, clean shaven, his black hair slicked back like a raven’s wing. And although he wore a simple cloak, secured over his shoulder with a plain clasp, he had the air of nobility about him. Perhaps this was due to the very simplicity of his attire, for true nobles have no need to dress flamboyantly, to show off with frills and lace. Only the new nobility needed to prove their credentials with gaudiness and show.

  Or at least, that’s what Frantz Heidel thought as he sized up the man opposite him. The witch hunter leaned back against his chair and glanced around the inn. Logs crackled in an open fireplace, yellow flames lazily throwing out heat. A few old-timers leaned up against the bar, heads drooping forwards as if they were gaining weight by the minute. In the opposite corner, a group of young men sat and laughed, their faces ruddy from cheap wine. The innkeeper’s daughter served them, making her way from behind the bar, through a wave of suggestive comments, to the young men’s table. Bechafen, Heidel thought to himself, could be any town in the Empire.

  Heidel dressed plainly himself, his clothes a series of simply-cut browns and greens, perfect for the wilderness. His face mirrored his attire, brown straggling hair falling around his ears, lines etched into his skin, thin lips. The only remarkable feature were his eyes, deep and dark. It was as if behind them whole vistas of passion and zealotry were concealed. Only the pupils allowed a glimpse, as if through a keyhole into a blazing room. He turned back to regard the nobleman.

  “The destruction of evil, that is the task I’ve set myself. It is my vow to seek out this cancer that grows daily in the world. And when I find it…” Heidel let his voice trail off.

  “A noble cause, undoubtedly.” The baron smiled slightly. “I understand you burned a man just three days ago. Tell me, have you ever destroyed an innocent by mistake?”

  “Never.”

  “And how can you be sure?” The baron’s eyes were alive with the challenge.

  “Witchcraft, sorcery and other forms of corruption are revealed by the stench that wafts before them. Evil betrays itself at every turn. Those who are sensitive feel its presence—I know I am in darkness when I cannot see,” Heidel said rather distractedly. He leaned forward, his voice gaining conviction. “The innocent have nothing to fear, for they walk in the light. But the guilty will reveal themselves, and they should tremble because only the gods and light and truth can cleanse the world of the foul existence of corruption.”

  The baron seemed satisfied with Heidel’s reply and leaned back, sipping his dark red wine. A moment later he placed the glass back onto the table. “So this job is suited to you? You can track down this evil band and—how do you put it?—cleanse them. The Dark Warrior has the heirloom, no doubt. When you have cleansed this foul brood and retrieved it, you will return it to me. Seven hundred crowns for its safe return. You can find me here when you return.”

  “Tell me, baron, when this band attacked your wagon, how did they know to take the heirloom?” Heidel poured himself another small measure of wine from the ceramic carafe.

  “I brought all my valuables with me when I chose to settle here, in Bechafen. They took us by surprise on the road and my men fled, the cowardly fools, leaving the follower of Darkness and his band to take what they wanted. Naturally I am somewhat embarrassed, so I trust that your task will be kept private.” The baron covered one thin hand with the other, as if to show what he meant.

  “And what does this heirloom look like?”

  “It is a pendant, silver, set with a blue gem. It is beautiful like a clear sky above the ice-stilled Reik in winter. When caught in the light it throws a thousand tiny sparks of silver into the air, and the blue becomes as deep and rich as the oncoming night.”

  “A beautiful object.” Heidel smiled, picturing the gem in his head with its changing blues and its flashing silver reflections.

  “My most precious,” the baron said earnestly.

  “You must be quite concerned.”

  “I am sick with worry that I might never see this precious thing again.” Then the baron shook his head from side to side, as if in disbelief that the pendant could ever have been stolen.

  “Well fear not, your lordship. I shall return your heirloom to you, and in doing so, give these foul obscenities their just desserts: an eternal sleep in a long, cold grave.” Heidel’s voice was firm, solid, emphatic. “I will need to find a guide of course, someone who knows the land—”

  “Ah, I have already thought of that,” the baron interrupted with a wave of his hand. “I know just the man. He’s a tracker, familiar with these parts. Karl Sassen. I shall send him word to meet you here at the inn.”

  “Well, if this Sassen is able to do the job, then we should be able to leave tomorrow.” The witch hunter raised his glass high. “To success in our mission,” he said.

  “To success,” von Kleist echoed, smiling broadly.

  The tracker, Sassen, arrived mid-morning. Heidel was reading The Confessions of Andreus Sinder, a book full of
the most personal and incisive perceptions into the nature of evil and darkness when there was a sharp rat-tat-tat on the door. He placed the heavy volume aside almost reluctantly and admitted him.

  Sassen was a little man, sprightly like a small animal. His body seemed perpetually tense, as if he might need to spring from danger at any moment. Heidel couldn’t help but think he looked like a weasel, a view accentuated by his long nose and soft, thin, facial hair.

  “Come in,” Heidel invited and Sassen followed him into the room. Heidel sat down but he was disconcerted when the tracker, instead of doing likewise, began to walk around, stopping only to inspect Heidel’s possessions.

  “A nice long-coat,” Sassen said in a soft high voice, more gentle and articulate than one would expect from a tracker. He rubbed the fur of the lapel between thumb and forefinger.

  Heidel agreed uncertainly, unsure of what to make of the little man.

  Sassen touched the hilt of the dagger on the small table by the side of the bed, but Heidel, getting increasingly annoyed, noticed that the tracker had cocked his head and that his eyes were on The Confessions of Andreus Sinder.

  “When do we start?” The tracker turned and, for the first time since entering the room, looked Heidel straight in the eye.

  Heidel, by this time, was struggling to contain his anger. The tracker had no manners. How dare he wander into Heidel’s room and begin to peruse at his leisure! Heidel bit his tongue and struggled for a moment before responding. “You realise the danger of the task?”

  The little man scrunched his face up. “I’m not a warrior.”

  “It is our joint task to recover the baron’s heirloom, so together we must do whatever is necessary. If that means you fight, then so be it. I will not complain about having to help with the tracking.”

  Sassen looked confused for a moment, as if there was something faulty in Heidel’s logic, then nodded in agreement. “Very well,” he said before sitting down on the bed and picking up the heavy tome which lay there. “This book,” the tracker said. “I have heard of Andreus Sinder.”

  “You are an educated man?” Heidel was both impressed and curious.

  “Oh, not really,” Sassen said with a self-deprecating smile. “I’ve learned to read a little: just a word here and there.”

  For the first time Heidel warmed to the man with the rodent’s face. Humbleness had always been a virtue to Heidel.

  Sassen continued: “I heard that Sinder was something of a sinner in his youth. Corrupted, they say, before he understood the true nature of evil.”

  “But he renounced the darkness,” Heidel countered instantly, “and believed that his knowledge could be used the better to combat it.”

  Sassen smiled momentarily, revealing sharp white teeth. “Could that be true? That a man could turn his back on darkness, when once he revelled in it?”

  “It appears to be the case,” Heidel admitted.

  “Then you have entertained the thought, Herr Heidel, that you might benefit from delving into forbidden arts and unhealthy practices?” Sassen smiled and his leathery face was cunning and mischievous.

  Heidel’s eyes flashed dangerously. “There are some,” he noted, “who say that they would never consider such a possibility. They argue that one can never be sure of one’s resilience, that only the strongest can return to the light after tasting such sweet and poisoned fruit.”

  Sassen stood and began to pace, intensely interested in the discussion. “And you agree with this position?”

  “No,” Heidel stated resolutely.

  “There is surely no alternative.” The tracker seemed pleased. Evidently he believed he had cornered Heidel. “Only such a position can be held if you wish to avoid experimenting with the Darkness yourself, and yet see some value in the Confessions. Otherwise what would your approach to Sinder be?”

  “I would have killed him.” Heidel’s voice was steady, adamant.

  “Even—”

  Heidel finished Sassen’s question: “Even after he had confessed the error of his ways.”

  Sassen stared fixedly, as if in disbelief, his small mouth open, revealing the small, sharp teeth. Heidel himself sat quite still, feeling almost guilty to have crushed what little intellectual argument the tracker had mustered—but knowing without question that he would have done just what he had declared.

  Later, after the pair had worked out a basic plan for the task ahead, Sassen left to organise the supplies: saddle-bags, his sword, blankets, food, and so on. Heidel, too, readied himself. He put on his old brown leather coat, hiding the chainmail he had donned for the battle that was surely to come. On his head he placed a black, broad-brimmed hat, weather-beaten and stained with sweat. He attached his sword to his waist and checked the long bow and quiver that he would carry on the saddle of his grey mare.

  Was it true, Heidel wondered, that he would have killed Andreus Sinder, the author of one of the most erudite tracts on the nature of evil, a text filled with piecing insights into the darkness in all its manifestations? Almost without realising it, he picked up the Confessions from where it lay on the table. He turned the cover over in his hands, feeling its weight. He rubbed his fingers across its cover. The leather was soft and supple. Instinctively he opened to the first page where the manuscript began. He read the first lines:

  Only by my participation in these unnatural events did I understand the true gravity of these horrors. Only then did I know the need to burn twisted evil with the bright flame of the sword.

  Heidel placed the book down, lost in thought.

  Heidel met Sassen by the gates of Bechafen in the early afternoon as the sun was just beginning to break through the lumbering clouds overhead.

  From Bechafen they rode out on the road that ultimately led to Talabec, passing through a series of small hamlets surrounded by green rolling fields. Their path ran south, though later it would turn gradually west. Cattle and sheep stood lazily about, munching on the grass and occasionally turning their soft dull eyes towards the two men and their horses as they rode by. Beyond the cows stood fields of wheat and barley, turning gold in the late summer. A farmer steering a cart carrying grain passed in the opposite direction; when he saw Heidel he bowed his head and would not look at him. Then a merchant train carrying barrels and furs clanked by, its heavily armed outriders giving them hard, silent stares.

  Finally a couple of young nobles on dashing black horses galloped across the fields and crossed the road in front of them without greeting, disappearing into the distance in pursuit of some unseen prey. After that they were alone on the worn path which meandered through the tree-dotted scrubland. Slowly, inexorably, the road turned westwards.

  As they rode Heidel felt distinctly happy. At last, he told himself, on the trail of evil again.

  “Lord Sigmar,” he prayed under his breath, “protect me on this journey. Let me return safely, the scalps of my enemies in my hand.” He never knew if the gods heard his prayers, but praying always seemed a wise idea. For if they did hear, perhaps they would deign to look over him.

  As if trying to fill the silence, Sassen began to tell Heidel about his life, though the witch hunter would have been quite happy not to hear it. The little man had lived in the country hereabouts for many years and had spent time hunting and clearing the land. Once, though, he had sailed the seas with a group of Norsemen, raiding unprotected towns, pillaging fat merchant ships. But since then, he assured Heidel, he had decided to work permanently around Bechafen. Heidel was not sure whether to believe the tracker. Sailing with Norsemen? Sigmar keep him, he thought; let the little man have his fantasies.

  “The baron told me that the attack on his goods occurred some ten miles from Bechafen,” Sassen continued. “He says the band of brigands headed east into the forest, towards the mountains.”

  “How did he discover that?”

  “After the attack he and his men returned to the carts, only to find them plundered. A fresh trail led off into the woods.”

 
Heidel nodded silently and disappeared back into his own thoughts as they rode on.

  The scattered vegetation around the road slowly transformed into forest: first a copse of trees here; then a slightly larger copse there, then they came quicker and faster until there was only a wall of thick greenery. Heidel was most comfortable in the wilderness. There was something about its simplicity. Danger was swift and direct: wild beasts searching for food; the descent of the winter snows; the surge of the stormy sea. Heidel’s worries were equally simple: finding a camp-site out of the weather; keeping warm and dry; saving enough provisions for the journey. Evil was stark, clear, easy to locate; creatures of darkness wandering the woods, raiding small villages, or hiding in the mountains. Heidel’s task was simple: to find them, and to eliminate them.

  Cities were another story. Affluence made Heidel uneasy. The machinations and intrigues of the courts, great glittering balls with ladies hiding their pockmarks under white paint and rouge, lords and princes wallowing in a sordid world of whores and white powders. Nothing was simple, everything was veiled and obscured. People spoke and acted according to complex codes and signs that had to be interpreted. A friendly greeting could conceal a serious insult. Your best friend could be your worst enemy. Simplicity and directness were seen as colloquial and quaint. Danger came in all sorts of guises, all manner of forms. He could never move in that society. They brought malevolence upon themselves. He could not, he would not, protect them. Better to leave that to witch hunters like Immanuel Mendelsohn.

  Heidel leaned over and spat on the ground at the thought of the man.

  Mendelsohn, a self-proclaimed witch hunter, was a nobleman by birth. He had grown up amongst the lords and the ladies—and the whores. He could move with ease in high society: with his frilled silk shirts, his brown curly locks, his floppy hats and pointed leather boots. And, for all this, Mendelsohn was not above suspicion. After all, it is a short step from silk shirts to other pleasures of the flesh. First came the finery, then the women and the illicit substances. Then came corruption, sure as night followed day. No, Heidel did not like him or his kind. Heidel did not like the aristocrat’s search for fame, his love of publicity, his attempt to turn everything into a drama. Mendelsohn gave witch hunters a bad name and it would not surprise Heidel if one day he would have to go after the noble himself. That stray thought brought an ironic smile to his lips.