Tales of the Old World

by Marc Gascoigne

  The sound of the ship striking the jagged fangs of rock that lurked just below the waters of the inlet tore the night asunder. It was like the bellow of some bestial god betrayed, a cry of pain and wrath. The cracking snap of the wooden hull as it split upon the rocks was the most horrible sound Karel had ever heard in his life, more terrible even than the cries and screams of the men onboard the ship that followed the death cry of their vessel. Karel focused upon the lights of the ship, trying again to pierce the veil, trying to see the conclusion of this terrible drama he was a part of. He could hear the screams; the cries of terror as the black waters flooded the ruptured hull, as the sea reached up with its amorphous claws to pull the dying ship down to its watery grave.

  Long minutes passed and the cries and screams faded away. The men upon the shore watched as the last of the ship’s lingering lights was extinguished by the devouring waters and all sign of their victim was lost to their view. Veytman was the first to turn from the beach, striding toward the bonfire and putting flame to the torch in his hand.

  “The first will be making shore any time,” Veytman said as the other men of Wulfhafen marched toward the beacon light and ignited their own torches. “Break into pairs.” The descendant of Wulfaert let a cunning look enter his eyes. “You all know what must be done.”

  Gastoen handed Karel a lit torch, pressing the boy’s fingers tightly about the firebrand’s grip. “You come along with me and Enghel.”

  Gastoen did not wait to see if his son would obey, but nodded to the grizzled, weather-beaten Enghel and the two men made their way away from the bonfire, holding their torches high to illuminate the incoming tide and the sandy beach.

  Karel walked several paces behind the two older men, his face pale and bloodless. He had heard the terrible shouts of discovery echoing from other searchers, only their blazing torches visible to his sight. He had heard the terrible screams that followed upon their findings, sometimes preceded by desperate, babbled pleas for mercy. Karel did his best to shut out the sounds of the drama’s murderous epilogue, but try as he might, he could not block out the terrible sounds.

  Ahead of him, Karel could see a dark object floating upon the white foam. Only when it was deposited upon the sand and rolled onto its back did he recognise the object as being a man. The youth ran towards the body that had come ashore. The ragged figure was tangled in a mass of weeds. Indeed, had he not seen the body wash ashore, Karel might never have noticed the object for what it was. The boy hurried over to the brown mass of vegetation and found himself staring down at a dishevelled shape that had lately been a man.

  Who he was, Karel had no way of knowing. Certainly he was no simple sailor, given the extravagance and finery of his clothes. There was a foreign look about him, a darkness of skin that instantly sent Karel’s mind wandering to Tilea and Estalia, places that were nothing more than exotic fables to the simple people of Wulfhafen. Karel noticed the man’s slender, patrician fingers, locked in a death grasp about a soggy, leather-bound book. Karel bent down towards the body and forced the cold fingers apart, relieving the body of the slender folio.

  Karel opened the book, holding it upside down to allow some of the excess water to drool away. The ink had smeared and run in many places, but there was still enough that was intact for the boy to be astounded. The slender tome had been a sketchbook, it appeared, its pages crammed with fantastic drawings of strange creatures and impossible plants. Karel gasped as he saw a drawing of an ugly brutish creature with a warty hide and great horns protruding from its face. He saw weird things that were like bats with the heads and tails of serpents. Karel found that the last pages of the book were missing altogether, lost in the violence of the wreck, denying him the pleasure of whatever sights were depicted upon them. The boy found himself gazing again and again at the drawings. Where had this ship been to see such things? Had they truly been to the terrible Chaos Wastes he sometimes heard his father mention in hushed tones? Or had some other, even more distant shore been the focus of their journey? A wave of guilt swept over Karel. These men had gone so far, and survived so much, only to find their doom on the wasted shore of Wulfhafen, victims of a hideous deception.

  The sigh that rose from the mound of weeds caused Karel to nearly leap from his skin. The youth cried out in fright before he saw what had so alarmed him. The man he had thought dead was staring at him, his eyes pleading for help, his slender hand reaching out towards him. Karel bent down towards the man, his hand reaching downward to meet that grasping for him.

  “Stand back, Karel,” Gastoen said, his voice strange and heavy. Both his father and Enghel were now looming over the survivor from the ship. Karel did as his father ordered and stepped away from the wounded man.

  The youth watched in open-mouthed horror as Enghel crushed the survivor’s arm with a savage downward swipe of his axe. The man’s arm snapped, hanging limply at a twisted, unnatural angle. All the same, he struggled to raise it to ward off the second blow. He did not see Gastoen come upon him from the other side, a wooden belaying pin in his hands. Gastoen struck the passenger’s head a brutal blow with the wooden cudgel, sending a rush of blood seeping from the man’s scalp. Gastoen did not pause to see what effect his first attack had accomplished, but struck his victim’s head again and again. After what seemed an eternity, Gastoen and Enghel withdrew from the pathetic, butchered thing that had once been a man.

  Karel was frozen to the spot as his father walked over to him. His father reached out and took the boat hook from his son. The contact snapped Karel from his horrified stupor and the boy looked away from his father.

  “You are tired,” Gastoen said, laying a hand slick with blood upon his son’s shoulder. “Hold the torches. Enghel and myself will attend to the body.” The old fisherman turned to the body of the murdered man, sinking the boat hook beneath the corpse’s ribcage. Enghel followed Gastoen’s lead, sinking a second hook into the body’s ribcage. Wheezing from the effort, they began to drag the body back towards the bonfire. Karel followed after the grim procession, both men’s torches held in his hands.

  The boy’s mind was in turmoil, reeling from the horror and barbarity of what he had witnessed. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the horrible scene upon the beach: the murdered man’s eyes staring with terror at his father as Gastoen sent the belaying pin crashing against his skull. Karel could not believe that his father was capable of such actions. The same man who had raised him, the same man who had so tirelessly instructed him in the skills of a fisherman, the same man who only the day before had jovially joked with him as they retrieved their lobster pots. How could such a man be capable of doing what he had seen him do? For most of his life, Karel had known what Wulfhafen’s trade was, but he had not understood what that trade really was until a few minutes ago. Now, more than ever, he thought about the virtue of such a trade, and was unable to reconcile himself to it. How had his father ever been able to embrace so cruel a vocation?

  As they made their way down towards the bonfire, Karel could make out the figures of men from the village drifting through the feeble light. He could see them linger before dark objects lying upon the beach, debris from the ship left stranded when the waters retreated back into the sea. Nearer, he could see Veytman and several others standing before a pile of barrels, clothing, and sacks. The men were laughing as Gastoen and Enghel hauled the body towards their position.

  “What have we here?” the firm, authoritarian voice of Veytman made Karel stand straight, a look of guilt coming upon his face, as though he had been caught in some mischief. Veytman met the gaze of the men dragging the body. “Ah, loot,” the hetman of Wulfhafen declared. The hetman walked over as Gastoen and Enghel withdrew their boathooks from the carcass. Veytman stared at the corpse, then reached down towards him. The wrecker’s fingers closed around a silver object dangling from the man’s throat. With a savage yank, Veytman snapped the pendant’s chain and tore it from the man’s neck.

  “My son found him,” Gastoen stated
, looking over at his boy, favouring his son with one of the strange, curious gazes that he sometimes directed upon Karel.

  “Congratulations, boy,” Veytman said. “You have found the best plunder yet.” Veytman turned the pendant about in his hand, allowing the little light penetrating the fog to play across its surface. In shape, it was like a crescent moon, a thin, wisp-like tendril rising from the upward tip of the crescent. Centred upon the crescent was a sphere or circle, as though Mannslieb had been impaled upon the waning Morrslieb. Veytman did not know what the symbol might be, whether it was a talisman of good fortune, a badge of rank or office, or the charm of some foreign god. It did not matter him; it was made of silver, and that was enough for the descendent of a pirate.

  The night passed slowly, and the morning fog was thick upon the beach. In the aftermath of the night, most of the men were gathered around the reduced flame of the bonfire, though a few still prowled the sands, looking for any plunder that might have escaped their notice the first time. Others were gathering broken planks and shards of deck or hull that had been cast ashore, intending to use the wood to bolster the frames of their homes and boathouses. Like the captain of a pirate vessel, Veytman made no move to aid the beachcombers. He stood with some of his closest cronies and examined what had already been collected, principally the salted meats contained within a waterlogged sack and the golden-hued rum within a slightly battered cask.

  “We had best keep this away from Una,” Veytman joked as he tasted the rum. “I don’t fancy another night listening to Enghel’s wife screaming at invisible goblins.” The comment brought laughs from all, and Veytman turned his attention to the salted meats, lifting a weird creature from the bag. Gastoen reached towards Veytman and took the strange salted carcass from the hetman’s hands.

  “Hopefully they were carrying something more useful than this,” Gastoen said, allowing the weariness to strain his voice. He turned the strange salted carcass in his hands, holding it by its tail. In size, it was akin to a squirrel, but in shape it was like a salamander. Altogether, Gastoen doubted if he would trust the thing’s meat to a dog.

  “The rum is good, anyway,” Veytman defended himself. “And they had some very fine clothing, as well. In fact, Emil found himself a fine set of boots.”

  “A wondrous haul,” Gastoen groused.

  “There might be more to recover,” Veytman replied, already turning away from the old man and returning to his conversation with the other men.

  The small fire continued to burn, fed by dry wood brought down from the village. Much of the kindling was wood salvaged from last season’s victims. It was a cruel jest that the same timber should be employed to consume the first victims of the new season. The men of Wulfhafen watched as the blaze devoured all traces of their prey, removing the last vestiges of their crime. It was rare, but not unknown, for a road warden or witch hunter to pass through the village and Veytman was taking no chances that the true nature of their livelihood might be discovered.

  “Has everyone come back?” Veytman asked Emil, eager to get to the business of splitting up the loot.

  “All except Claeis and Bernard,” replied the grim faced Emil, obviously disgusted by the smell of cooking flesh. There were things even a cutthroat could not get used to.

  Veytman rolled his eyes and began to mutter a curse against the laziness of the men in question when, as if on cue, a horrified scream rang out from the beach. As one, the men withdrew from the pyre and ran towards the sound. The fog had still not entirely dispersed from the shore, yet it had thinned enough that Bernard could be seen, kneeling in the sand, staring at the sea and sobbing hysterically. Veytman was the first to reach the terrified man.

  “Get a hold of yourself,” Veytman snarled, grasping the front of Bernard’s shirt and shaking him roughly.

  “What happened?” Gastoen asked, his voice more calm and even than Veytman’s savage tone. Bernard turned his face towards the sound of Gastoen’s voice.

  “Claeis… Claeis,” was all the man could stutter.

  “What about Claeis?” snapped Veytman, pulling Bernard to his feet. “Where is that idiot brother of yours?” Veytman slapped Bernard with his open hand, trying to beat sense back into the frightened man.

  “Gone!” Bernard shrieked. “A daemon rose from the sea and grabbed Claeis in its claws! It dragged him screaming into the sea!”

  The men of Wulfhafen cast apprehensive looks about them and fear began to crawl across their faces as they heard Bernard’s frightened tale. Only Veytman was unperturbed. Far from fear, the hetman broke out into laughter.

  “You expect me to believe that?” Veytman buried his fist in Bernard’s belly, knocking the man to his knees. “A daemon, eh?” A savage kick to Bernard’s face sent the man sprawling. “You and your brother must have found something very choice to concoct that ridiculous tale!” Veytman sent another booted kick into Bernard’s ribs.

  “I tell you, we were searching the beach and a huge daemon rose from the fog and grabbed my brother!” Bernard shrieked. Another brutal kick silenced the man. The men of Wulfhafen watched as their leader turned away from the unconscious Bernard, uncertain what to make of the situation.

  “Two of you drag this thief to the meeting hall,” Veytman ordered. “And keep him there,” he snarled as an afterthought. “The rest of you try to find his idiot brother. I won’t stand for any man trying to cheat this village of what it has earned!” The gathered men began to break away into small groups to search for the missing Claeis.

  It was with great reluctance that Karel joined his father and Enghel in the search. Despite Veytman’s contempt for the story Bernard had told, despite the hetman’s claim that this was nothing but a plan to cheat the people of Wulfhafen, the boy was not so very sure that something had not in fact risen from the sea and taken Claeis. More than ever before, Karel understood that Wulfhafen was an evil place and that perhaps the Darkness had at last reached out to claim its own.

  The search was called off after only a few hours. There was no sign of Bernard’s missing brother, but neither was there any trace of the sea daemon that had supposedly made off with the man. A furious Veytman had returned to the meeting hall, a murderous look in his eyes. He was quite vocal in his determination to beat the whereabouts of Claeis and the hidden plunder from Bernard and it was not too long after Veytman had entered the structure that the first screams of agony sang out across Wulfhafen.

  The other men returned to their homes for the most part, although a few chose to watch the proceedings in the meeting hall. Some, no doubt, did so out of sheer sadistic urges, but Gastoen privately wondered how many did so because they harboured doubts about the honesty of their hetman and desired to be present to hear for themselves what Bernard had to say.

  Gastoen and Karel returned to their home, Karel’s mother already preparing a stew from one of the lobsters they had captured the day before. Karel, for his part, fell asleep awaiting the preparation of the food, slumping down in his chair. Gastoen smiled, knowing how little sleep the youth had had over the last few days, excited about his trial of manhood. Gastoen rose from his chair, prepared to rouse his boy and usher him to the greater comfort of his bed when he noticed the soggy, leather-bound book tumble to the floor from its resting place within Karel’s shirt. Curious, Gastoen picked up the book and returned to his chair.

  It was nearing dusk when Gastoen finished his examination of the book. He had scanned every page, trying in vain to decipher the smeared script, a task his own feeble reading skills were not equal to. The drawings were in better shape, and Gastoen gazed at them with a thrill of wonder he had not felt since he himself was a young boy. He stared at the strange pictures, likening them to a curious creature he had once seen in a Marienburg shop: a beast the shop owner had called a lizard, claiming it came from far off Araby. Gastoen could discern no scale for the animals depicted in the drawings, but he could not shake the feeling that the subjects of these pictures were massive, resembling the lizar
d he had seen in the same way an ogre resembled a man. It was not until he saw the strange plants that a frightful thought occurred to Gastoen. The fisherman and ship wrecker shook his son back into awareness.

  “Come along, Karel,” Gastoen said, rising from his chair once again and grabbing his hat from its peg beside the door. “We are going over to the meeting hall.”

  Bernard’s screams had long since stopped. As Gastoen and Karel entered the large building, its floor composed of looted deck planks, they could see their former neighbour lying hunched in one corner of the main room. The man was unconscious, his chest barely rising. One of his eyes was a darkened hole, the flesh about the burned socket blackened and charred.

  “He didn’t say anything,” Veytman said when he noticed Gastoen enter. Emil and a half dozen other men stood near the hetman, drinking some of the gold coloured rum. “He stuck to that idiotic daemon tale of his.” Veytman paused and took a deep swallow from his own leather mug. “We’ll try again when he comes around.”

  “I want you to see something,” Gastoen said, walking towards Veytman, the book in his hands. Gastoen opened the volume to a page he had marked and showed it to the hetman.

  “Do you see this?” Gastoen asked, pointing to one of the drawings. Veytman glanced at the picture of a strange looking plant and shrugged his shoulders. A few of the other men gathered around to see what was being discussed, staring at the book from over Gastoen’s shoulders.

  “What am I supposed to see in that?” Veytman sighed, taking another pull from his mug.

  “We found a plant just like that washed ashore,” Gastoen answered, one of the other villagers nodding his head in affirmation.

  “So? Is it valuable?” Veytman remained confused. Gastoen turned the pages to where the drawings of the animals were.