Tales of the Old World (116 page)

The people of Kurtbad drew back from the thick, fetid smoke and the stench of
decay. All except Anja, who stood in the glow of the flames and wept gently, her
tears mingling with blood from a cut on her cheek.

Gunter dragged her away, put himself between her and the flames.

Dagmar’s body melted like a candle as if the blaze inside him was hotter than
the fire of oil and sticks. It took longer for the butcher to die.

I am burning now as I will burn then.

* * *

Though Kurtbad remained a single stitch on the merchant’s map it was never
the same town. Some believed that they could always smell the stench of the
mutant on the common. Chaos had touched them, they said, and that was the reason
the crops were poor. The lonely gibbet was demolished and the wood used to make
a new sheep pen.

Gunter tried to resign his post but he was forced to stay by the people who
said that now they truly understood the gravity of the threat. He tried to learn
to read. Anja left the town on the black stallion with the silver hooves, which
she was said to have sold for a fair price in the market at Nuln. She never
returned to Kurtbad, either with a child or a brand on her arm.

“By the grace of the Lady!” The Grail Knight’s voice echoed throughout the
forest clearing. The heads of the four beastmen at the entrance to the shrine
turned to look at him, claws reaching for weapons. Drawing his own blade, Sir
Gilles Ettringer, Knight of the Grail and champion of Baron Gregory de
Chambourt, spurred his steed towards the hated abominations. How dare they tread
upon this holy place?

Though righteous anger burned in his heart, he did not let it consume nor
cloud his mind, for he was a loyal servant of the Lady of the Lake. Nourished by
the water of the holy chalice, his soul was as strong and sure as the steel in
his mailed hand. These defilers would pay dearly for their trespass.

The first was dispatched before it even had chance to bring its sword to
bear. The second’s head, that of a half-starved dog, flew from its shoulders,
crashing into the undergrowth.

A goat-headed enemy came at him from the side, baring foam-flecked teeth,
scrawny arm preparing to throw a crude spear. Sir Gilles tugged sharply at the
reins, sinking his spurs deep into his mount, and manoeuvred it round. The
warhorse, rocking forward onto sturdy forelegs, kicked sharply backwards, its
iron-clad hooves snapping the beastman’s neck.

A spiked mace was swung vainly. Sir Gilles brought his shield up, absorbing
the blow, then flicked his blade deftly out, its point sinking for a fatal
second into the breast of his final foe.

Hardly out of breath, Sir Gilles surveyed the carnage he had wrought. The
only sound was the pounding of his horse’s hooves as it pawed the blood-soaked
ground.

Darkness came prematurely to this part of the forest, the sun blocked out by
the plateau that was Sir Gilles’ home. Though the base of the Chambourt was
only an hour’s ride distant, to be alone in the forest at this time was far from
desirable, even for a warrior of his stature.

Before he could resume his journey, there was something he had to be sure of.

Armour clanking, Sir Gilles dismounted. He raised the visor on his helm,
revealing the face of a middle-aged man, lined and white-whiskered. He walked
towards the entrance of the shrine and knew immediately that his task was not
yet over.

From inside he could hear the buzzing of flies.

Lying at the heart of Bretonnia, the Chambourt was a vast shelf nestling in
the foothills of the Orcal Massif, thrusting high above the crag-filled oaks of
the Forest of Charons.

From the window of his chamber, the baron gazed out at his realm with a
contented heart. Set against the monotonous, cloud-wisped expanse of the forest,
the Chambourt glowed beneath the last rays of the setting sun. Squares of corn
caught the fading sunlight, intersected with pasture, dotted with healthy
cattle. Irrigated orchards flanked the river that flowed down from the
snow-capped peaks of the Massif, cutting a life-giving path through the land.

There was a light knock at the door.

“Enter,” the baron said, turning from the window.

Pagnol, his ageing manservant, shuffled into the room, gaze respectfully
averted. The baron shuttered the window.

“The banquet hall is prepared, my liege,” said the old man. “We wait only for
your presence.”

“Any word from Sir Gilles?”

“No, my lord. He has not yet returned.”

Taking a robe from his bed, the baron fastened it at his shoulder and stepped
towards the doorway, held open by the faithful Pagnol. “No matter. It is not to
be helped.”

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.