Tales of the Old World (89 page)

Movement sounded from within, but there was no further reaction. Sigmar,
thought Jurgen, he’s probably completely smashed.

“Come on, Klaus, it’s me! Open up!” Jurgen hammered again.

It had been a long night; he was exhausted, frozen and scared. All of which
might help to explain why not until the last, even after the door was flung
open, after he was seized by rough hands and dragged into that nightmare room of
blood and torment, did he suspect that anything was in the least amiss. By then,
of course, it was too late.

Two huge thugs gripped Jurgen’s arms, and he hung between them like a sack of
grain. The small room was a shambles, although the violence done to the
furnishings was minimal. There was some glass on the floor from a broken
decanter, and some papers had also been trodden into the rug. It was the blood,
which seemed to saturate every surface and piece of furniture in the room, which
coated the floor and rug in a sticky mess, that created an impression of such
brutal vandalism. The gore was from one source: Klaus von Rikkenburg II, who sat
slumped in a bloodied mess, tied into a previously opulent chair by lengths of
thin cord. Behind him stood Eretz Habemauer, the one Jurgen had known as
“Randolph”, a gore-spattered pair of pliers in his hand and a pouting smile on
his lips.

“How fortunate! Who would have thought you would have friends in such
circles, Jurgen? And you have brought a little present also, hmm?” Eretz
gestured to a third thug, who lifted the cover on the painting for the noble to
inspect. “Ah, how beautiful. Best put it away. Wouldn’t want to contaminate the
precious thing now, would we?”

The thing in the chair convulsed suddenly, then began moaning piteously.
Jurgen’s heart turned over; poor Klaus was still alive! Eretz appeared to derive
amusement from the display, for his pout became a wry smirk.

“Your friend does have surprising endurance. Had you arrived earlier you
could have enjoyed the show; I fear Herr Rikkenburg will not be with us much
longer.” Eretz paused with mock regret. Jurgen’s tensed with rage. “Well, we had
best be off. I think it’s time for you to meet the count.”

“Can I…” Jurgen choked on his words, though with anger or sorrow he could not
tell, “can I have…”

“Hmm? Oh yes, of course. It must be very sad for you,” Eretz said, with the
indifference of handing a coin to a beggar.

Jurgen approached the mangled form of Klaus, who was suddenly beset with
violent coughing. Jurgen bent to speak to his friend, though the right words
escaped him.

“Klaus… I’m… Sigmar!” Jurgen mumbled, his stomach turning. “I’m so sorry,
Klaus.”

The figure jerked his head up at the sound of Jurgen’s voice, its ruined face
staring straight through him. “Jurg—” An explosion of coughing. “…Is that you?”

“Yes, friend. I’m—”

“Jurgen… the pain… it’s evil. Watch… blood, don’t let your bio…” Klaus’ body
was wracked with an especially violent fit of coughing. When the attack ceased,
the figure was still.

The two thugs stepped forward and seized Jurgen, and he was led away. Away
from the ruined room, and from his dead, ruined friend.

Jurgen saw little of the Romanov estate, crammed inside a darkened carriage.
The manor, however, he had ample time to survey as he was pulled forcibly from
the coach and shoved up the wide entrance stairs. The exterior gave an
impression of ageing splendour: a once-great edifice falling into disrepair, the
combination of neglect and the passage of time taking their toll.

The interior, in contrast, contained opulence the like of which Jurgen had
never before set eyes on. Its crumbling passages were graced with a plush red
pile carpet, and vivid tapestries and silks hung from the walls. The huge,
antiquated rooms were decorated with chairs and couches with velvet upholstery,
and strange sculptures and statuettes of exotic origin.

Jurgen was led into a large study, with shelves of books lining all four
walls and a fire crackling in a sizeable hearth. Reclining on an opulent chair
with a large tome on his lap was a middle-aged man, tall, with dark hair greying
at the temples. He turned towards the new arrivals with irritation.

“Eretz, what is this?” the count—for Jurgen had no doubt this was he—spoke with annoyance, “What are you doing here?”

“This is Jurgen Kuhnslieb, your lordship, the thief I hired.” Eretz spoke
proudly, like a cat triumphantly depositing the corpse of a bird onto his
master’s bedroom carpet. “He obtained the painting, and was attempting to keep
it from us, as I predicted, when we intercepted him.”

“You have the painting?” Romanov sat up, his eyes burning with sudden
intensity.

“I viewed it myself. We were… interrogating someone, a student, to find out
what Jurgen was planning. I knew—”

“Where is it, man?” The count stood impatiently.

“Fyodor and Willem are preparing it as we speak.”

Romanov nodded briskly and stalked past Eretz, who hurried after his master.
Jurgen was shoved after them by his large minder.

“So,” Eretz was gabbling, racing to keep up with Romanov’s long strides, “my
spies followed the thief to a student’s house. I knew this scholar, one of the
Rikkenburgs, from my studies. He had even given a dissertation on
The Blessed
Ones.
I knew that as soon as this petty burglar found out about the true
powers of the painting, he would try to take it for himself. I had to find out
what he was planning.”

The group reached a long set of stairs, and began the descent into the bowels
of the manor. Eretz continued his report. “We were fortunate that the thief,
having somehow evaded the men I set to tailing him, came straight to the
student’s room with the painting just as we were finishing up! Of course, I had
considered the possibility that he might return…”

The count stopped and turned, directing a piercing look at his excited
protégé. “You took a considerable risk, against my explicit wishes, doing this.
You were extremely lucky that things have worked out as they did.” Romanov spoke
briskly, with controlled malice. Jurgen seemed forgotten. There are more
important things to consider now. “Be silent!”

The party descended the remainder of the staircase in a hush, only the sound
of their footsteps on the ancient stone filling the charged silence. At the base
of the stairs, lit by guttering torches, stood a large wine-cellar, containing
rows of dusty bottles on racks. Romanov gestured to Eretz, who walked sullenly
to the opposite wall and lifted a small flagstone to reveal a short, steel
lever. Eretz struggled briefly, then with a grating of stone on stone, a section
of the cellar wall swung ponderously outwards.

Beyond lay an unusual sight, a chamber of beauty and horror. One half of the
room was adorned with the sweeping silks, extravagant furniture, and fine
candelabras common to the rest of the manor.

The other half, set on a cold stone floor, was filled with
aesthetically-placed instruments of torture, Jurgen could discern a few of the
usual suspects: the rack, vices designed to fit various appendages, and an iron
maiden, its exterior decorated with a naked woman carved in alarming detail.
Many of the remaining devices were far more bizarre and exotic, and Jurgen could
only guess at their uses—though he suspected that guesses would soon be
unnecessary.

At the opposite end of the chamber, two men were carefully arranging the
covered painting on a large easel, which stood before an altar of stone draped
with a silk cloth.

A small jade statuette of a beautiful androgynous figure, a cruel smile upon
its lips, stood on the altar, its feet immersed in a low stone dish containing a
dark liquid. Jurgen felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as a feeling of
deepest dread filled him.

Jurgen was manhandled over and deftly tied to a large crossbeam planted into
the bare stone. At a gesture from Romanov, Jurgen’s minder exited the chamber,
the stone door rumbling shut behind him. The count turned to Jurgen.

“Listen carefully, vermin. You are about to witness something so wondrous I
doubt your petty little mind can even comprehend it. Enjoy the privilege, for
your death will soon follow, even as my everlasting life is assured.”

Romanov turned away, and walked purposefully to the painting, the two
servants respectfully standing aside. Meanwhile, Eretz had taken a short flaxen
whip from a rack of tools on the wall, and was walking slowly towards Jurgen, a
coy smile playing across his face.

The first blow caught Jurgen unprepared. A casual flick of Eretz’s wrist sent
the point of the whip stinging across the thief’s right cheek. Jurgen gasped and
stifled a cry. A second flick lashed above his left eye, sending blood trickling
down his face. This time Jurgen did cry out, equally from despair as from pain.
Romanov, who had been stooped in an examination of the painting, turned in
annoyance.

“Stop that, Eretz! You can entertain yourself with your trivial games, or you
can observe history in the making.”

The count stepped back from the painting, studying it with the eye of an
aesthete while Eretz looked on respectfully. Jurgen, blinking away blood, was
also drawn to the picture within the frame, his eyes widening in horror at what
he saw there. The image was of a forest glade with a shallow pool, in which
figures bathed and lounged around in various states of undress. All of the
figures were attended by oddly-proportioned red-skinned daemons, who appeared to
cater to all the whims and desires of their human masters. The image was
disturbing enough to Jurgen, but what induced such terror in him was a figure he
recognised within the painting. Even from this distance, Jurgen could clearly
make out the merchant, Grubach, lounging by the pool. His face was plastered
with a strained grin, but his eyes stared wildly from the canvas in horror and
desperation.

Neither Eretz nor Romanov seemed to notice anything amiss. Romanov produced a
ceremonial knife from the folds of his robe, and held forth his left arm. He
carefully made a light cut, catching the flow of blood on his finger. He studied
the crimson drops for a moment before stepping towards the painting. Unnoticed,
Jurgen struggled with his bonds, testing for a weakness.

“Immortality is mine!” Romanov cried theatrically, and smeared his blood onto
the canvas.

For a moment nothing happened, and Romanov glanced about uncertainly. A light
mist then began to seep from the painting, and the frame seemed to glow slightly
in the candlelight. The bloody smear began to sizzle, seeping slowly into the
canvas. The count stepped back in wonder and a low hum filled the air. The
canvas appeared to pulse, the image distending, and abruptly two figures flowed
out of the painting, forming before the awed count. They resembled the daemons
in the picture: tall, spindly red-skinned creatures, with wide grins painted
onto their distorted faces. Jurgen redoubled his efforts, and was rewarded with
a loosening of his left wrist’s bonds.

The two creatures spoke as one, their horrible sensual voices echoing through
the room: “Lord Slaanesh is grateful for your sacrifice—the eternal service of
your immortal soul!”

Romanov stood in stunned horror as the two creatures seized him by the
shoulders. One of the guards, prompted into desperate action by the plight of
his master, leapt at a daemon with a desperate sword swing. The creature reached
out, easily seized the guard’s arm with one long clawed hand and twisted it into
an unnatural angle. A languid swipe of razor-sharp claws separated the man’s
head from his body, and he collapsed to the ground.

Eretz and the remaining servant looked on in shocked disbelief as their
master was dragged, screaming, pleading, into the accursed painting, flesh
flowing like vapour, until all three figures were gone. The room was filled with
a palpable silence, though a lingering aftershock remained, like the ringing in
the ears after a blow to the head.

Jurgen took his chance. Twisting his freed left arm, he plunged his hand into
his clothing, snatching his last remaining knife, hidden on his inner right
thigh. Jurgen quickly cut himself free from his constraints, as Eretz and the
guard stood staring at the painting in disbelief.

Jurgen lunged forwards and despatched the guard expertly. Eretz span to face
the thief, white fury suffusing his face, and lifted his whip. Jurgen raised his
arm to defend against the coming strike, only to find his extremity suddenly
entrapped in the whip’s coil. Eretz yanked the whip, sending Jurgen sprawling on
the cold stone floor.

“It’s all over now, Eretz,” Jurgen implored from his place on the floor, “It
was Romanov’s mistake. There’s no need for us to kill each other.”

“You cannot possibly understand!” Eretz screamed with rage. “You are
nothing! Nothing!”

Jurgen received a painful kick to the ribs. He gasped, then jerked the whip
from Eretz’s hand, rolling quickly away across the floor. He scrambled to his
feet as Eretz charged. Jurgen’s desperate stab pierced Eretz’s shoulder, but did
little to stop the maddened acolyte, who seized him by the shoulders and slammed
him backwards into the stone wall. Jurgen’s head bounced off the chiselled rock,
and he slumped to the ground, stunned. A savage kick to his jaw flattened him,
blood and pain exploding in his mouth.

Jurgen pushed himself upright, shaking his blurred vision clear, to see that
Eretz had picked up a heavy, shoulder-high candelabra, and was advancing
intently. Jurgen blinked, attempting to clear the blood from his eyes. He raised
his hand up protectively in front of him, the bloodied dagger still clasped in
it.

Eretz laughed maniacally at his feeble resistance. “Good night,” he said,
hefting the candelabra.

Jurgen looked up, sighing painfully. His blurred eyes strayed as he awaited
the final blow, and came to rest on the malevolent painting sitting just a few
feet away. Jurgen continued to stare, as a curious thought struck him. Eretz,
puzzled by Jurgen’s behaviour, followed his gaze, then quickly turned back, eyes
wide as he reached the same thought a moment too late.