Tales of the Old World (20 page)

“You have been corrupted, necromancer, and for that you will be sent
screaming to the abyss,” Mendelsohn stated simply, as if he was passing
sentence. For a moment the baron was taken aback by the confidence in the witch
hunter’s voice.

But then von Kleist smiled. “And what of this?” he asked as he reached up and
implanted the brilliant blue gem of the pendant into the top of the stone
archway. A harsh light arced from the gem, sulphur-bright, searing away the
shadows of the cavern. A rank smell, as if of burning metal, filled the stale
air. Slowly the entire floor seemed to move; the sea of bones swelled into
waves. A jaundiced murmuring rose discordantly on the air—and the bones began
to move!

Heidel felt unhinged, delirious at the sight, as ages-dead bones ordered
themselves: as thighs re-attached themselves to hips, as jaws began chatter, as
mottled arms and withered skulls rejoined their bodies. The cavern echoed with
the hideous scraping of bones as they slid, as if sentient, in search of the
right joint, the correct aperture, with which to connect. The horrendous reek of
death choked the air as the entire collection of corpses and body parts shifted
and roiled around each other. To Heidel it seemed a hallucination, yet he knew
its awful reality. This was no time for dreaming; they must act, or they would
die here.

The witch hunters moved with lightning speed. They leaped high and scrambled
over moving skeletons, slashing out with their rapiers at claws which tried to
grasp them. Heidel kicked at cadaverous hands, pushed himself further forward
using skulls as hand-holds, ribs as footholds. He struggled to balance himself
on the shifting sea of bones beneath his feet, which seemed to lurch ten feet
one way, then ten feet another. He felt nails begin scratch at him, jaws bite.
More than once he felt sharp pain and his blood flow.

Heidel heard two explosions in swift succession, and watched Sassen fall
howling, his face ghastly white, two holes blasted in his chest. He glanced
around wildly, but could not see Mendelsohn. The witch hunter had only moments
before he would be drowned in a sea of gnashing corpses. Desperately he tried to
reach the baron, slashing frantically as he tried to carve a path through the
shifting bones.

Baron von Kleist was prepared. Beneath his breath he muttered something
arcane and guttural. From his suddenly outstretched hand a ball of livid red
flame shot towards Heidel, who ducked uselessly as searing fire wrapped itself
around his body. Someone screamed agonisingly, a wail which rose and rose until
Heidel wished that whoever it was would stop. Then, as it finally died out, the
witch hunter realised that he, Heidel, had been the one screaming. He raised his
head to see another fireball speeding from the baron’s hand. The fire embraced
him again; his agonised wail broke unbidden from him once more. As the pain died
he saw, from the corner of his eye, Mendelsohn, who had scrambled rapidly over
the rising bones and reached the arch. The other witch hunter stood behind the
baron, arm raised with a stone in hand.

No, Heidel screamed inside, mouth barely able to form the words. Mendelsohn!
You’re facing the wrong way…

Mendelsohn faced not towards the baron, but towards the arch. The stone came
down, with all the force that Mendelsohn could muster in his body—directly
onto the blue gem of the pendant set into the arch. A third vast fireball
exploded around the hellish cavern, but this time the fire did not touch Heidel.
This fire was white and searing, and it flowed from the gem in the archway like
a river of flame. Flame that engulfed Mendelsohn and tossed the baron aside with
its force.

Around Heidel the bones shuddered, as if in memory of agonising pain. Then
they collapsed like puppets with their strings severed.

With renewed vigour, Heidel leaped forward and landed before the baron, who
was struggling onto his hands and knees amidst the scorched cadavers. Heidel
kicked out and von Kleist was flung backwards. The baron scrabbled, belly
exposed, hands desperately searching for purchase on the carpet of bones. The
witch hunter thrust downwards, feeling the sword pierce vital organs, slip
between bones.

A look of shock crossed the baron’s face. “No!” he howled. “This cannot be!”

“Know this, necromancer!” Heidel cried. “I am a witch hunter. I will seek out
evil wherever it raises its misshapen head, and I will wipe its pestilence from
this world. You are leprous and corrupt. Return to the abyss from whence you
came.”

When his words finished, the baron was dead.

Heidel rushed over to Mendelsohn’s side, but was too late. In destroying the
pendant, the flamboyant witch hunter had destroyed himself.

Heidel did not stay long. He muttered a few words under his breath, a prayer
of sorts:

“What is it to be a witch hunter?

To toil endlessly against the dark.

What then will be our reward?

We ask for none and none is received.

When can ever we stop?

When the cold grave eternal calls us to rest.”

Heidel stood and turned to leave. But he stopped himself, bent down and
picked up a metal object from the floor. It was an ornately carved pistol, the
silver a little blackened with soot. He turned it over in his hand. It was
heavy, yet fit well in his palm.

Well weighted, he said to himself. I think I will learn to use this, he said.
Yes, I think I will. Then he placed it beneath his belt.

I might not buy a silk shirt though.

In his head he heard Mendelsohn’s voice.
Humour is one of the ways to
fight the darkness,
it said.

Heidel smiled briefly and began the long walk back to the surface of the
town.

“Grungni’s beard, I wish they’d quieten down! I’ve got one hell of a
hangover!” King Kurgan spat derisively at the burly greenskin watching over
them.

The four dwarfs were tied to stakes, their hands and ankles bound with crude
rope. A huge bonfire raged not far off and the orcs were celebrating their
victory. The air was filled with the sound of beating drums and the woods
reverberated with the constant pounding. As the night passed, they broke open
huge barrels of their foul intoxicating brew to wash down the hunks of charred
dwarf flesh they had eaten earlier. The flames of the fire leapt higher and
higher and the orcs shouted louder and louder.

Kurgan’s blood boiled. He strained at his bonds with all his strength. It was
to no avail; the knots remained as tight as ever. He was condemned to look on
despondently while the foul creatures made a banquet of his household. Over to
his left, Snorri slumped semi-conscious against his pole. The others, Borris and
Thurgan, seemed similarly dazed. The king’s gruff voice cut across the laughter
and shouts of the orcs.

“Snorri! Hey, Snorri! A curse upon us for being captured rather than killed,
wouldn’t you say?”

The venerable advisor groaned and looked up at his king, one eye screwed shut
with pain, the lids stuck together with congealed blood from a cut on his brow.

“Aye, a pox on the green devils for not ending it honourably, sire. I’ll see
them all rotting in hell ’fore I’m for the pot! Mark my words!”

Despite their predicament, Kurgan was heartened by Snorri’s defiant words and
he grinned to himself. Out beyond the fire he could see the orcs smashing open
the barrel of ale he had been taking with him to his cousin in the Grey
Mountains. A tear glistened in Kurgan’s eye as he thought of that fine brew,
made over five hundred years ago and matured in oak casks stored in Karak Eight
Peaks, wasted in stunted orc throats. What he had paid for that small keg could
have trained and equipped an army for a month. The potent ale had seemed like a
good investment at the time, but when the orcs had poured from their hiding
places yelling their shrieking war cries, he had realised that perhaps the money
should have been spent on an army after all.

Kurgan pushed aside thoughts of ale and studied the orc camp, trying to
figure out a plan of escape. Most of the orcs—he wasn’t sure how many there
were—sat in small groups, dicing, squabbling or just sprawling, bloated. The
smaller goblins scurried to and fro, fetching and carrying for their bigger
cousins, who would occasionally kick or punch one of them for raucous
entertainment. A particularly inventive black orc used his spear to elicit a
yelping noise which the orcs found amusing.

Kurgan could see that most of the dwarfs’ stolen weapons, armour and treasure
was piled all over the camp, with no plan or order. In one part of the clearing,
Kurgan’s mighty field tent had been crudely erected for the orc leader, although
the sides of the massive marquee had not been unfurled. Inside, gold and gems
were piled high, but Kurgan was looking for the magical weapons and armour that
had been stripped from him and his Longbeard retainers. Across the darkness
Kurgan could make out the massive warlord, sitting on a fur-backed throne at one
end of the tent while his drinking cronies squatted around him. A mass of
glittering treasure was spilled around them. They laughed heartily at some
brutal jest. Perhaps the warlord felt Kurgan’s gaze lingering on him, for the
orc slowly turned his heavy head to fix the dwarf king with evil red eyes. That
malevolent glance fastened Kurgan to the wooden stake as surely as the ropes
which bound him. For a short moment he stopped struggling.

Kurgan regained his composure, scowling at the dark savage with what he hoped
was his most frightening glare. The warlord backhanded one of his subordinates
for some misdemeanour, sending the orc sprawling in a spray of teeth. The huge
brute stood up abruptly, shouting something to his subordinates, his bosses. He
grabbed a passing goblin and tossed the unfortunate creature into the blazing
campfire. As the warlord’s comrades laughed at this jest, the huge orc began
stomping towards Kurgan. His glowing eyes never left the dwarf for a moment. The
milling throng of orcs and goblins parted effortlessly before the stride of the
mighty warlord, closing in behind their leader as he marched towards his most
prized captives.

The orc warlord was dressed in heavy black mail and studded plates, and even
Kurgan found himself thinking that he presented a fearsome sight. At his belt
hung a string of grisly trophies: severed heads, hands, feet and ears dangled
from a chain looped around a thick leather strap. The warlord’s skin was dark
green in colour, almost black, and slab-like muscles rippled beneath the
surface. The orc’s bucket-jawed head thrust forward from between two
chain-bedecked shoulder pads, his red eyes burning with fierce power. They were
pinpoints of pure hatred, smouldering with a barely-repressed violence that made
Kurgan tremble with fearful anticipation. Switching his gaze before he betrayed
any weakness to the advancing orc, he looked at the huge column of smoke pouring
into the sky, lifting burning fragments of his comrades’ clothes into the chill
night air.

Across the woods, other eyes had seen the smoke. Now they moved silently
through the forest towards its source.

Ansgar turned to the youth leading the hunting party and asked the question
which had been nagging him.

“Are you sure this is a good idea? We’ve got no clue as to what’s out there!”

The burly young man simply turned to him and winked, before pressing forward
along the rough track. Ansgar sighed and beckoned the rest of the party to
follow, swapping worried glances with a couple of the older members, veterans of
no few battles. Eginolf passed by and Ansgar fell into step with his twin
brother.

“I don’t like this at all, Eginolf. He’s a fine lad, but he’s not ready for
something like this. Headstrong, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t,” came the grunted reply.

Ansgar shrugged and padded along the game trail in silence, his hand holding
his sword to his thigh to stop it making any noise. The hunting party included
warriors of all ages, from veterans in their thirties like Eginolf and himself,
to seasoned warriors in their early twenties and untried boys who had seen only
a dozen summers.

Their leader, perhaps surprisingly, fell nearer that end of the scale. The
youth was a fine-looking young man. Only fifteen, he was already over six feet
tall and his well-muscled body put any man to shame. It wasn’t only his physical
prowess that impressed Ansgar, though. The hunt lord was clever and canny, with
an experience of hunting and battle that belied his age. The lad had a toughness
inside too, a resolute stubbornness to overcome any problem.

Ansgar fondly recalled a time, maybe five years ago, when a party had gone to
the river to catch fish. The group had been confronted by a massive bear, there
for the same purpose. Everybody else had frozen, but the young lord had strode
forward, hands on hips, until he was a few paces from the huge beast. “These are
our waters, fish somewhere else!” he stated in a level voice. Ansgar had
expected the bear to swipe the boy’s head off, but instead it had looked at the
youngster’s unwavering stare and had turned and lumbered into the woods without
a growl.

From that day, the young lord had become known as Steel-eye, and his
reputation had done nothing but grow. He was a good leader, generous to those
who served him well, swift to act against the enemies of the tribe. He was very
much like his father and when that great man was eventually ushered into the
halls of the dead, his successor would bring a time of equal prosperity. But
that was for the future. All that mattered now was finding out who was
trespassing on their lands.

The warriors of the hunting band were dressed for the cold night, their
brightly patterned woollen breeches and fur-lined leather jerkins protecting
them from the biting north wind. Most of the men wore their hair in one or two
long braids down their back, woven with bright ribbons and beads to match their
chequered leggings.