Tales of the Old World (16 page)

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!”

“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.