Calderino’s wiry body shuddered with fury. “You owe me my money, Wolff!” he
screamed. He looked around at his men and pointed his knife at Jonas’ head.
“Kill the bastard, quickly. I can’t bear to listen to his stupid, pompous
voice.”
The man nearest to Jonas sprang, cat-like, bringing his stiletto down towards
his face with lightning speed.
Jonas rocked back on his heels with the practiced ease of a dancer. His
agility shocked the knifeman and he stumbled past him in confusion. Jonas drew a
long, slender sword from within his cane and slid it neatly through the man’s
ear so that it emerged on the other side of his head in a bright fountain of
blood.
The man twitched and lurched for a few seconds, dangling puppet-like from
Jonas’ sword, then the old man withdrew the blade and the attacker slumped
lifelessly to the floor.
Fabian stopped trying to climb to his feet and lay down again in shock. His
uncle’s movements had been faster and more graceful than any swordsman he had
ever seen. He noticed something else, too: as Jonas fought, his lips had moved
as fast as his limbs, mouthing strange, silent words and phrases.
Calderino’s three remaining men took one look at each other and leapt at
Jonas with their blades flashing.
The old man rolled to the ground in a fluid, elegant movement, so fast that
the first man to reach him tripped awkwardly over his hunched frame and toppled
heavily onto the path. Jonas then rose smoothly to his feet and skewered him
through the back of his neck with a quick thrust of his rapier, leaving him
gasping horribly for breath and clutching at his severed windpipe.
The second man to reach Jonas jabbed his stiletto at the small of the old
man’s back, but Jonas simply rolled forward out of harm’s way and the knifeman’s
own momentum sent him crashing to his knees. He had barely cried out in pain
before Jonas spun around in a delicate pirouette with his sword held at just the
right angle to sever the man’s head from his shoulders and send it bouncing away
down the path.
At the sight of such formidable skill, the third man tried to halt in his
tracks, abandoning his attack and turning it into an attempt to flee, but his
leg still had Fabian’s knife embedded in it, and as he turned it collapsed
beneath him. He slipped on his heels and fell backwards with a cry of fear.
Jonas had no need of any more acrobatics. The man was so petrified, Jonas simply
took one step forward and, with an artistic flourish, jabbed his sword quickly
in and out of the man’s left eye, puncturing his brain and leaving him to thrash
around for a few seconds like a landed fish, before finally lying still.
Jonas raised his hand to stifle a yawn as he turned to face Calderino.
“That’s even more effort I’ve wasted on you,” he said, taking a languid step
towards him. “You’re running up quite a debt.”
Calderino shook his head in horror and backed away into the shadows. “You’re
a witch,” he hissed, before turning to sprint away across the silvery lawns.
Fabian looked up at his uncle in awe as he loomed over him. “I can’t believe
what you just did,” he groaned, struggling not to vomit again. “You moved so
fast. It was incredible. Even men half your age aren’t so agile.”
Jonas looked down at him with a sad smile. “It’s true,” he said, placing the
tip of his sword against Fabian’s throat.
“What’re you doing?” asked Fabian, trying to twist his neck away from the
blade.
The smile slipped from Jonas’ face, to be replaced by humourless frown that
Fabian had not seen before. “I could never have learned such techniques from any
normal swordsman,” he continued. “And unfortunately, on the rare occasions I’m
forced to use them, I must ensure there are no witnesses. It’s nothing personal,
you understand. It’s just crucial that nobody can tell the world of my special
talents. Calderino may have eluded me for the moment, but his days are numbered.
I’ll see to him shortly. You, however, are a different matter.”
“I don’t understand,” croaked Fabian, hoarse with panic. “You’re going to
kill me?”
Jonas sighed heavily and nodded. “It
is
most unfortunate,” he said.
“I’ve already grown quite fond of you. I particularly liked the way you attacked
a gang of vicious hired killers without the remotest chance of surviving.”
“Uncle, I beg you,” cried Fabian, grabbing his uncle’s leg. “Don’t do this!”
Jonas narrowed his eyes. “I wonder,” he muttered, pressing the tip of his
sword a little harder into the soft flesh under Fabian’s chin. The boy whimpered
as he felt a thin trickle of blood run around his trembling neck and begin to
pool on the ground beneath his head. “Tell, me Fabian,” said Jonas, lowering his
voice to a whisper. “What do you crave most of all in the world? What do you
dream of?”
A host of possible answers filled Fabian’s mind. He saw that his life
depended on choosing the right one, but which was it? What did his uncle wish to
hear? That he wanted to be an honest, law-abiding man, or an infamous villain?
Or that he wished to be a great scholar and author, or an artist even? What
could it be? He sighed and let his head fall back to the ground, realising that
it was hopeless. What ever he said would be wrong. “If I weren’t about to die in
this filthy, fish-stinking, cesspit of a city,” he said finally, “my dream would
have been to reinstate my family’s honour. And to see a Wolff at the head of the
Empire’s armies once more; leading us to glorious victories, as my ancestors
did, instead of poring over prayer books and building even more temples.” He
glared up at Jonas. “And who knows, maybe if I hadn’t been betrayed by such a
lying, ungrateful maggot of an uncle, I could have reminded my father that Jakob
isn’t his only son.”
Jonas continued to frown at him for a few seconds, then a smile spread slowly
across his face. He tilted his head back and began to chuckle. Then his chuckles
became great, heaving guffaws and he dropped his rapier to the ground with
clatter. “Lying, ungrateful maggot,” he gasped through his laughter. “Oh, I like
that.” He fell to the ground, next to Fabian, still shaking with laughter. “We
truly are kin, you and I,” he said, blinking away a stream of tears.
An overwhelming feeling of relief washed over Fabian as he realised he’d
somehow stumbled across the right answer. As a grey dawn crept nervously over
the convoluted spires of Altdorf, it found the two Wolffs laughing and rolling
hysterically across the park, surrounded by blood and the spread-eagled corpses
of their foes.
As they arrived back at the door of the Unknown House, blackbirds were
trilling from its eaves and sleepy-eyed merchants were already hurrying past on
the way to market.
Isolde was waiting for them: leaning against the doorframe with her arms
folded and a despairing look on her face. “I see you’ve already introduced our
guest to the dubious pleasures of Altdorf’s nightlife,” she said with a wry
smile.
As his uncle placed a kiss on her outstretched hand, Fabian could hardly
believe it was the same woman. Her hair was tied back in a neat, intricate
plait, and her eyes were bright and alert. She was no less beautiful, but all
trace of her earlier feyness had vanished. She shook her head in reply to
Jonas’ wry smile and held out her hand to Fabian.
“I doubt Jonas has found time to mention me. I’m Isolde, his wife. It’s a
pleasure to meet you, Fabian.”
Fabian frowned in confusion, but Jonas’ raised eyebrows and fixed smile
implied that Fabian should say nothing about their previous encounter, so he
simply kissed her hand and gave a low bow. “The pleasure’s all mine, Frau Wolff.
Uncle told me you were beautiful, but you surpass even his most enraptured
descriptions.”
Isolde pursed her lips in disbelief. “Hmm. I see he’s been giving you lessons
in flattery, too.” She gave a good-natured chuckle as she waved them inside.
“Come in. Come in. I doubt he remembered to offer you anything as mundane as
food. I thought you’d come scurrying back at first light, so I’ve rustled you up
some breakfast.”
The house was just as gloomy and labyrinthine as the day before, but with
Isolde waltzing through its maze of halls and antechambers, humming a merry tune
as she went, the atmosphere seemed far less oppressive. She led them to a dining
room crammed with suits of rusting armour and dusty, stuffed animals, bears
mainly, who crowded around the long table like hungry dinner guests. Fabian
shoved a mangy badger from the seat he was offered and began to eat. Isolde had
prepared a platter of cold meats, sour bread and scrambled eggs and as soon as
Fabian took his first bite he realised how hungry the night’s adventures had
left him. For a few minutes he forgot everything else in his eagerness to wolf
down the food.
After a while he sat back in his chair and found that Isolde had left them.
He could still hear her nearby, whistling and bustling around the house, and the
sound comforted him for some reason.
“So,” said Jonas, pouring him a cup of tea. “Where does this leave us, you
and I?”
Fabian leant across the table and looked imploringly at his uncle. “I would
never talk of what I saw. You must believe me.”
Jonas nodded and twirled his waxed moustaches thoughtfully. “And just what
exactly
did
you see?”
Fabian shrugged. “I saw a man too old to walk properly, suddenly become the
most agile, deadly swordsman I’ve ever seen. I saw him slay four trained
assassins with no more effort than if he were combing his hair.” He paused,
recalling the incident. “And I saw him utter strange, whispered sentences that
seemed to aid him in some way—almost as though the strength and speed of the
attack were linked to the force of the words.”
Jonas nodded. “You’ve a sharp mind, and you’ve already guessed at far more
than I would usually be comfortable with. However, as I said earlier, I feel we
share more than just a bond of blood. Your ambitions remind me very much of my
own adolescent dreams.” He took a sip of tea and sat back in his chair, eyeing
Fabian carefully.
“I’m a collector of curiosities, Fabian,” he explained. “Curiosities and
antiques of all kinds, and I’m not just talking about physical relics. I’m a
kind of archaeologist of ideas, as much as anything. I’ve spent my whole life
digging beneath the oppressive, facile foundations of our universities and
colleges, looking for older, broader forms of knowledge. However,” he said,
waving at his lined face, “I’m even more ancient than I look, believe it or not,
and I sometimes wonder what will happen to all this accumulated wisdom when I
finally grow tired of life. I’ve no children, you understand.”
He looked around at the rows of glassy eyes that surrounded them. “I
inherited the Unknown House from my great grandfather, Johannes Wolff. I know
very little about him, but I believe he may have shared the same desire for
strength and glory that burns in the two of us. I’m not sure of his profession,
but his house was full of oddities even before I took possession of it, and I
also inherited many of its odd guests. They continued to arrive, unannounced,
long after Johannes had died, still expecting an unquestioning welcome at the
house of a Wolff.” He shrugged. “So, in exchange for various gifts and pieces of
information, I let them keep coming. This house has countless rooms and half of
the time I couldn’t tell you who’s staying in them. But my guests have proved to
be an invaluable source of knowledge. Many of them have travelled from the
furthest corners of the Old World and are prepared to provide me with the most
incredible artefacts in exchange for nothing more than hospitality and
discretion. My one condition is that only the most interesting people are
admitted. If there’s one thing I can’t bear, it’s a dullard.”
Fabian leant across the table towards Jonas, his eyes wide with excitement.
“Share your learning with me, uncle, I beg you. I’ve already spent long hours in
the library at Berlau, reading of the days before Sigmar. I know much about the
Old Faith that preceded our current church.”
“There are things I could show you,” conceded Jonas. “There are certain
techniques and methods that might help you realise your ambitions.” He took a
silver chain from around his neck and placed it in Fabian’s hand. Fabian
recognised it as being identical to the one he saw around Isolde’s neck. In the
hazy light of the dining room, however, he could now discern the small figurine
that hung on the end of it: it was the head of a wolf, carved intricately from a
piece of bone. Jonas closed the boy’s hand over the pendant and squeezed, until
the icon pressed painfully into the flesh of his palm. “You must swear an oath
of secrecy, though, Fabian,” said Jonas, gripping even more tightly. “And if you
ever break this oath, a curse of the most violent, terrible magnitude will come
down on you and your family.”
Fabian did not hesitate for a second. “I swear,” he said. “I swear I would
never tell a soul. Even if it meant my life or the life of my parents.”
Jonas gripped Fabian’s hand for a few seconds longer, peering into his eyes
as though looking for something. Then he nodded, withdrew the pendant and hung
it back around his neck. “Do not take that oath lightly, my boy,” he said, with
a deep sigh. Then, after finishing his tea, he rose to his feet. “You should
probably bathe and get a little sleep,” he said, in stern, serious tones. “We
may only have a few days before you leave and there is much to learn before
then.”
Fabian did as he was instructed. Isolde made him a hot bath and showed him to
a small attic room that looked out over a noisy, wooden dovecote and a sunlit
yard at the back of the house. He was exhausted from the night’s exertions, but
he still only managed to sleep for a couple of hours. His dreams were filled
with visions of his uncle’s brutal acrobatics; but it was his own face that was
muttering the strange words as he plunged a glinting rapier into the bodies of
countless, reeling foes.