The Ambassador

by Graham McNeill

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons

  and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the

  world's ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury

  it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds

  and great courage.

  At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the

  largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for

  its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is

  a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests

  and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns

  the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendant of the

  founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder

  of his magical warhammer.

  But these are far from civilised times. Across the length

  and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces

  of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come

  rumblings of war. In the towering World's Edge Mountains,

  the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and

  renegades harry the wild southern lands of

  the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the

  skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the

  land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the

  ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen

  corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods.

  As the time of battle draws ever

  near, the Empire needs heroes

  like never before.

  Now...

  Spring 2522

  I

  Dawn was minutes old and already men were dying. From where he knelt by a smouldering campfire, Kaspar could hear their screams of pain, carried on the cold wind that blew from the valley mouth and silently commended their souls to Sigmar. Or Ursun. Or Olric. Or whatever deity, if any, might happen to be watching over them this bleak morning.

  Scraps of mist clung to the ground as the sun weakly climbed through the pale sky, replacing the descending full moon and casting its watery light on the valley as two armies greeted the new day and prepared to slaughter one another. Kaspar stood stiffly, massaging his swollen knee and wincing as his aged bones cracked. He was too old to be sleeping on the ground again and he ached all over from the cold.

  Thousands of men filled the valley: pikemen from Ostland, halberdiers from the Ostermark, archers from Stirland, Kossars from Erengrad, swordsmen from Praag and scraps of bloodied regiments trapped in Kislev following the massacre at Zhedevka. They roused themselves from their blankets and stirred smouldering fires to life. From where Kaspar stood, he could see perhaps two-thirds of the army, some seven thousand men from the Empire and a further nine thousand from the city of Kislev and its surrounding stanistas. The mist and slope of the land conspired to conceal another six or seven thousand warriors from his sight.

  It had been many years since he had commanded soldiers in battle and the thought of sending these brave men to their deaths, many of them barely old enough to shave, brought a familiar sadness and humility.

  Hundreds of horses whinnied and stamped their hooves, aggravated by the presence of so many soldiers and the smell of cooking meat around them. Squires calmed their masters' steeds with soft words while Kislevite lancers painted their own mounts' coats with the colours of war and secured feathered banners to the saddles. Black-robed members of the Kislevite priesthood circulated through the army, blessing axes, lances and swords as they went, while priests of Sigmar read aloud from the Canticle of the Heldenhammer. Some men claimed to have seen a twin-tailed comet during the night and, while no one was quite sure what kind of an omen it was, the priests were taking it as a sign that the patron deity of the Empire was with them.

  Kaspar himself had dreamed of the comet, watching it blaze across the heavens and bathe the land in its divine light. He had dreamed of the Empire wracked by war, its mighty cities cast down and its people exterminated: Altdorf burned in the fires of conquest and the northern fastness of Middenheim drowned in blood, its inhabitants hung by their entrails from the top of the Fauschlag. Barbarous northmen and monstrous beasts that walked on two legs rampaged through the ancient streets of his beloved Nuln, ravaging and burning everything in their path while a young, golden-haired youth, hefting his father's blacksmith's hammers, rose to fight them.

  He shook off such melancholy thoughts and made his way through the army. He had slept apart from his comrades, unable to relinquish his guilt and unwilling to share his grief after what he had done at the foot of the Gora Geroyev the previous week.

  Drays laden with bags of powder and shot plied their way across the muddy ground, sweating muleteers and muscled teamsters struggling to keep them from becoming bogged down. They lurched towards the higher ground where the banners of the Imperial Gunnery School fluttered above massed lines of heavy cannon. Braziers smoked where the gunners waited for the order to fire, and engineers in the blue and red livery of Altdorf plotted ranges for the mortars dug into gabion-edged artillery pits behind the cannon.

  Kaspar moved around a dray carrying halberds, billhooks and pike shafts and made his way to where his black and gold banner billowed next to the purple gonfalon of the Knights Panther. His own horse was corralled with those of the knights and was being fed and watered by Kurt Bremen's squire. Kurt himself knelt in prayer with the rest of his knights and Kaspar did not interrupt their devotions, helping himself to a mug of hot tea from a pot steaming above a nearby fire.

  Pavel snored beside the fire, his massive frame wrapped in furs, and despite everything that had transpired over the past months, Kaspar felt a surge of affection for his old friend. He sipped the hot tea, wishing that he had some honey to sweeten it with, but smiling at the ridiculousness of such a notion here and feeling the dregs of sleep fade from his head. He cast his gaze north, towards the mouth of the valley where forty thousand northern tribesmen of High Zar Aelfric Cyenwulf's horde also prepared for battle.

  'Just like old days, eh?' said Pavel, finally emerging from his bedroll and reaching for a hide skin of kvas. He took a mighty swig and held it up to Kaspar.

  'Aye,' agreed Kaspar, swallowing a mouthful of the strong liquor. 'Except we're both twenty years older.'

  'Older, yes. Wiser, well, Pavel not know about that.'

  'You'll get no argument from me on that score.'

  'Do they come at us yet?'

  'No,' said Kaspar, 'not yet. But soon they will.'

  'And we send them back north without their balls!'

  Kaspar chuckled. 'I certainly hope so, Pavel.'

  Silence fell between the old comrades before Pavel said, 'You think we can beat them?'

  Kaspar considered the question for several seconds before saying, 'No, I do not think we can. There's just too many of them.'

  'Ice Queen say we will win,' said Pavel.

  Kaspar looked towards the top of the valley sides as the mournful bray of a tribal horn sounded from far away, desperately wanting to believe that the Ice Queen was correct. The mist and smoke from the campsite obscured all but one of the great standing stones that gave this valley its name.

  Urszebya. Ursun's Teeth.

  A swelling roar built from the mouth of the valley, guttural chanting from the High Zar's warriors that echoed in time with the clash of their swords and axes on iron-bossed shields.

  The Ice Queen claimed these stones were worth fighting for.

  Kaspar just hoped they were worth dying for.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Six Months Ago

  I

  'Neither the climate, manners nor
diversions of the place suit either my health or temper and the only pleasures I may indulge in are eating and drinking - yet Sigmar knows I have scarce tasted much worse in my time as an ambassador of our noble Emperor than I found here!'

  - Letter to Altdorf, Andreas Teugenheim,

  former ambassador to the court of the Tzarina Katarin

  Kaspar von Velten reined in his bay gelding and stared up at the great walled city of Kislev, unwinding a woollen scarf from around his face. Autumn was barely a month old, yet the day was bracingly chill and his breath misted in the air before him. He knew that winter came early in Kislev and it wouldn't be long before the hillside the capital sprawled across was locked in its icy grip. A fine, wind-blown rain drizzled from the sullen sky and Kaspar could well understand the dislike of this country's climate that Ambassador Teugenheim had expressed in his letters.

  His deep-set blue eyes had lost none of the brightness of youth, but were set in an expression of tense anticipation, his skin tanned and leather-tough from years of campaigning across the Old World. Beneath his wide brimmed hat, he wore his thinning silver hair close cropped, his beard similarly neat and trimmed. A faded tattoo from his youthful days in the ranks snaked its way from behind his left ear and down his neck.

  Sunlight glittered from the spear points and armour of soldiers walking the ramparts of the massive wall, their fur-lined cloaks flapping in the wind. Kaspar smiled as he remembered Teugenheim's description of the first time he had seen the city in his letters home to Altdorf...

  The city rises from the oblast like a jagged spike on the landscape, dominating the countryside around it in a vulgar fashion that is only to be expected of this rude nation. The walls are high and impressive to be sure, but how high must a wall be before it becomes unnecessary? It seems that these Kislevites have built their walls higher than any I have ever seen, and the effect is, though impressive, somewhat gauche for my taste.

  Kaspar's trained eye swept the length of the wall and took in the lethal nature of the defences. Machicolations were cunningly wrought within the decorative gargoyles at the wall head and smoke curled lazily upwards from prepared braziers on the ramparts. The precise construction of the protruding towers and gatehouse ensured that every yard of rocky ground before the walls was a killing zone, covered by crossbows and cannon fire.

  Teugenheim's descriptions scarce did the scale of the fortifications any justice and Kaspar knew from bitter experience that an attacker would pay a fearsome toll in blood to breach these walls.

  A cobbled roadway wound up the Gora Geroyev, the Hill of Heroes, to a wide bridge that crossed a deep ditch and led to a studded timber gate banded with black iron and protected by murder holes in the stone roof.

  Though he had fought and led armies in Kislev before, Kaspar had never had occasion to visit the capital city before, but knew good fortifications when he saw them. These walls were amongst the most steadfast defences he had ever laid eyes upon, at least the equal of Nuln or Altdorf. However, unlike either of those cities, Kislev's walls had a smooth, glassy look to them, as though the stone had vitrified under some intense heat.

  Perhaps the most common tale sung by the more prosaic bards and troubadours of the Empire was of the Great War against Chaos, a mythic epic which told that in times past, hordes of the northern tribes had laid siege to this mighty city before being routed by an alliance of elves, dwarfs and men. It was a rousing tale of heroism and sacrifice, which had been embellished wildly over the years. The most common embroidery of the tale, added by its more imaginative tellers, was that the mutating powers of the dark gods had caused the solid stone of the walls to run like molten wax. Most scholars dismissed this as pure fancy, but looking at the walls of this city, Kaspar could only too readily believe every one of those embellishments.

  'Sir?' came a voice from behind him and Kaspar snapped out of his reverie.

  Behind him stood a black, mud-spattered carriage, emblazoned with the golden crest of Nuln. A scowling old man, his skin like a craggy mountainside, was seated on the cushioned buckboard holding the horse teams' reins loosely in his one good hand. Further back were four covered wagons, their contents and passengers protected by oiled canvas. The drivers shivered in the cold and the horses impatiently stamped the muddy roadway. Huddled miserably on the back of the last two wagons were sixteen young men, the lance carriers and squires of the giant knights in shining plate armour who ringed the small convoy. The knights rode wide-chested Averland steeds, each dressed in embroidered caparisons and not one beast less than sixteen hands high. The armoured warriors wore the threat of their power like a cloak; a potent manifestation of the might of the Empire's armies. They held their heavy lances proudly aloft, purple, gold and lilac pennons attached below the iron tips fluttering in the breeze.

  Grilled helmet visors obscured their faces, but there was no doubting the regal bearing of each and every knight. Damp panther pelts were draped across their shoulder guards and both the Imperial standard and Kaspar's personal heraldry flapped noisily in the stiff breeze from a knight's banner pole.

  'My apologies, Stefan,' said Kaspar, 'I was admiring the fortifications.'

  'Aye, well we should get inside the walls,' said Stefan Reiger, Kaspar's oldest and most trusted friend. 'I'm chilled to the marrow and your old bones don't take well to this cold neither. Why you insist on riding out here when there's a perfectly good carriage is beyond me. Waste of bloody time bringing it, if you ask me.'

  The knight riding alongside the carriage turned his head, his displeasure at Stefan's familiarity obvious despite the lowered visor. Many an Empire noble would have had a servant flogged for speaking in such a familiar tone, but Stefan had fought alongside Kaspar for too many years for either of them to put up with such formal nonsense.

  'Less of the "old", Stefan, you'll be in the temple of Morr before I.'

  'Aye, that's as maybe, but I'm much better preserved. I'm more like a fine Tilean wine - I improve with age.'

  'If you mean you become more like sour vinegar, old man, then I'm in total agreement with you. But you're right, we should get inside, it won't be long before it's dark.'

  Kaspar dug his heels into the horse's flanks and dragged the reins in the direction of the city gates. The lead knight also spurred his horse, riding alongside Kaspar as they crossed the wide, stone bridge and approached the gate. He raised his helmet guard, revealing a chiselled, patrician face, lined with concern and experience. Kaspar slapped a gloved hand on the knight's shoulder plate.

  'I know what you're thinking, Kurt,' said Kaspar.

  Kurt Bremen, the leader of the knights, scanned the warriors on the battlements seeing several had trained bows on them, and his frown deepened.

  'All I am hoping,' replied Bremen in his clipped Altdorf accent, 'is that none of the soldiers up there have loose bow fingers. How you permit the lower orders to address you is none of my concern. My only priority, Ambassador von Velten, is to see you safely to your post.'

  Kaspar nodded, ignoring Bremen's oblique disdain for his current task, and followed his stare. 'You don't think highly of the Kislev soldiery, Kurt? I commanded many of them in battle. They are wild, it's true, but they are men of courage and honour. The winged lancers are the equal of any Empire knightly order...'

  Bremen's head snapped round, his lip twisted in a sneer before he realised he was being baited. He returned his gaze to the walls and nodded grudgingly.

  'Perhaps,' he allowed. 'I have heard that their lancers and horse archers are fierce, if reckless, warriors, but the rest are lazy Gospodar scum. I'd sooner entrust my flank to a free company.'

  'Then you have a lot to learn about the Kislevites,' snapped Kaspar and pulled ahead of the knight. The gates swung wide on well-oiled hinges and Kaspar found himself confronting a man with the longest, bushiest moustache he had ever seen. He wore a threadbare surcoat depicting the bear rampant over a rusted mail shirt and chewed messily on a chicken leg. Behind him stood a detachment of armoured sol
diers with crossbows and spears. He cast an appraising eye over Kaspar before sliding his gaze across to the carriage and wagons behind him.

  'Nya, doyest vha?' he finally barked, obviously drunk.

  'Nya Kislevarin,' said Kaspar, shaking his head.

  'Who you?' said the man finally, his Reikspiel mangled and barely intelligible.

  Bremen opened his mouth to speak, but Kaspar silenced him with a gesture, dismounting to stand before the gatekeeper. The man's eyes were bleary and red and he had trouble focusing on Kaspar. His breath was foetid and stale.

  'My name is Kaspar von Velten, the new ambassador to the court of the Ice Queen of Kislev. I demand you and your men stand back from the gateway and allow my party to enter the city.'

  Kaspar pulled a scroll bearing the Imperial eagle pressed into a wax seal from within his doublet and waved it beneath the gatekeeper's veined nose. He said, 'Do you understand me?'

  In a brief moment of clarity, the man noticed the knights and the flapping banner and stumbled backwards. He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the soldiers behind him who gratefully retreated into the warmth of the gatehouse. Kaspar replaced the scroll and swiftly swung back into the saddle. The gatekeeper sketched a drunken salute to him and Kaspar smiled as the man said, 'Good welcome to Kislev.'

  II

  Kaspar blinked as he emerged from the darkness of the gateway into Kislev. A cobbled esplanade filled with market stalls and shouting traders lay before him, the air thick with the smell of fish and sound of cursing voices. Three streets led deeper into the centre, each one similarly choked with people and pack animals. Kaspar inhaled the pungent aroma of the bustling city. The buildings here were well constructed of stone with tiled roofs of clay. The clatter of wagon wheels sounded behind him and he pulled his horse to one side as Stefan drove through the gate.

  'So this is Kislev,' said Stefan, unimpressed. 'Reminds me of Marienburg. Too cramped, too noisy and it smells of fish.'