[Konrad 02] - Shadowbreed

by David Ferring - (ebook by Undead)

  Five years less a day.

  Now the bronze knight was nearby, and this was the same date upon which Konrad and Elyssa had originally seen him. There was no such thing as chance, Wolf had often said — only fate. And Konrad had come to believe that was indeed true.

  He must find the horseman. Only then could he begin to find his own true self, to unravel the mystery of his life.

  With a final glance at Anvila, at Wolf, Konrad spun around and entered the dark tunnel that would lead him up to the surface.

  The passage was too narrow to swing an axe if he were attacked, and he drew his sword. His left hand reached for his knife, forgetting that it was gone. Watching for the glimmer of evil red eyes that would warn him of the deformed enemy waiting in ambush, he stepped into the blackness.

  He blinked at the sudden light. The sun was at its zenith, blazing down from a cloudless sky. In winter, Kislev must have been the coldest place in the world — but in summer it seemed the hottest.

  He took several deep breaths, filling his lungs with clean air, ridding his nostrils of the nauseating goblin stench which had permeated the underground labyrinth. His skin and clothing were still smeared with green blood, and that would not be as easy to eliminate as the foul odour.

  As he discarded most of his stained clothing, Konrad remembered the last time he had been coated with so much gore. That was also the day when the village had been destroyed, when for his own safety he had disguised himself in the hide of a beast-man he had killed, joining the berserk raiders who invaded the valley.

  He spat, trying to rid his mouth of the taste of death, and trying not to remember the distant past. The latter was much more difficult.

  He soon found the huge lens that had once provided the illumination for the underground dwarf temple. It was circular, at least five yards in diameter. Faceted like a cut gemstone, it lay embedded at an angle in the mountainside. Anvila had blasted away the rocks which for centuries had covered the great glass, and now it was cracked and fractured in numerous places.

  Several sections were missing, and this was what must have caused the optical phantasmagoria which had revealed the warrior in bronze. A distant image captured by one of the missing facets had been reflected via the surface lens to its smaller companion in the cavern beneath.

  Konrad walked to the furthermost edge of the precipice and tried to see the landscape far below. Despite leaning out as much as he dared, too many of the lower peaks obscured his view. This far away, he had no way of telling where the bronze horseman was, which direction he was riding.

  His only hope of discovering the knight’s location was to find the correct shard of ancient lens. It must exist, because that was how he had seen the image of the rider. If he traced the missing glass sliver, he hoped to look through it like the eyepiece of a spyglass and thus find his enigmatic quarry.

  There were so many shattered fragments of rock from the gunpowder the dwarf had employed, that Konrad realized such a search would almost certainly be futile — but he had to try.

  For nearly an hour, he clambered over the boulders and scrambled amongst the dust and debris, hunting for a piece of glass that had become balanced on a vantage point or wedged in a position where it overlooked the ground below. He found many splinters of lens, gleaming in the sunlight like precious jewels, but not the one which he was seeking.

  Finally, he was forced to admit that it was hopeless. Every minute that had passed, the further away was the bronze warrior.

  He had emerged on the surface via a different crevice in the rocks, although he had taken his bearings at once, and now he headed for the lower slope. He glanced towards the south, along the route Anvila and he had climbed, noticing the familiar landmarks — then he stared into the darkened fissure where he had entered the goblin stronghold.

  He was tempted to return, to help the dwarf with Wolf, but he realized there was nothing that he could do. They did not need his assistance. He had come out into the open to find the bronze warrior, and that must be his prime objective.

  Following the precarious route by which he had arrived, he began making his way down the mountainside. Going down was no easier than ascending; in some respects it was more difficult. Climbing, he had no fear for himself because he was anxious to locate Wolf, and saving his comrade had been the only thing on his mind.

  He had also been facing towards the summit all the time. Returning, he was constantly aware of the altitude, and how very far it would be to fall…

  At length, he reached the point where Anvila and Wolf had been ambushed just before dawn. It looked no different from anywhere else on the harsh route — except for the mangled corpses of the goblins that the pair had managed to slay before Wolf was captured and Anvila had fallen down a crevasse. Among the dead lay the body of Midnight, Wolf’s horse.

  Konrad found a waterskin among the supplies that the white steed had carried up the tortuous slope, and he slaked his dry throat with the welcome liquid.

  When he had drunk his fill, he allowed the water to cascade over his face, rinsing away the worst of the blood. He rubbed at the slime with the back of his hand, then sorted through the rest of the provisions for whatever he might need.

  He did not take much. Wolf and Anvila would also need food and water. There were more supplies with the other horses further down the mountain — assuming they had not been found by another band of goblins, or some different creatures that dwelled in this rocky realm.

  Although he was still exhausted, Konrad did not remain for long. He had to keep moving, and he continued down the rugged slope, collecting the items he had discarded on his upward race — his fur leggings, the pieces of armour that had slowed his climb — until finally he reached the place where he had spent the previous night.

  Everything seemed as he had left it when he had suddenly seen what would happen to his two companions, when he had rushed to their aid, racing hopelessly against the rising sun. The horses were still tethered, but Konrad approached cautiously, drawing his sword, his eyes flickering across the rocks and boulders. The area was deserted.

  Konrad finished cleaning himself, before bandaging his wounds. Ever since he had almost lost it, his right arm had always healed more swiftly than the rest of his body. The limb had been severely wounded in combat a few years ago, and it had seemed that amputation would be necessary; but the wound had been tended by an elf who possessed healing skills which had saved the arm.

  After dressing in whatever he could find and hurriedly eating a few rations, Konrad saddled his horse — then wondered what direction to take. To begin with, there was only one route. He had to continue down the mountainside. The track was no longer so steep or as treacherous, but it was still not easy. On the way here, during this part of the journey they had led their animals, whose hooves were wrapped to muffle the sound of iron on rock, and they had only travelled during the hours of darkness for fear of observation and pursuit.

  Now, however, it was Konrad who was the pursuer — and the route was almost as bad in daylight as it had been at night. He had no time to lead his mount. Speed was of the essence. He had to risk the animal tripping and breaking a leg; it was either that or allowing the bronze knight to escape.

  Once he was beyond the mountains, he would have to decide in which direction he should be heading. Until then he kept scanning the area below, watching for a distant rider. But there was no sign of anyone — or any thing. The same had been true of the journey here; they had seen not a trace of the alien hordes which infested this part of Kislev. That in itself should have been suspicious, but the trio were grateful for the empty miles.

  After growing up in the Forest of Shadows, where an enemy could be lurking behind the nearest tree, Konrad was still not used to the open spaces that existed around the mountains. He could see for miles across the plains. If there were any beastmen in the vicinity, he would probably see them before he was spotted. He was continually on the lookout, but it was not the marauders for whom he was
searching.

  He soon realized which direction he must take. There was only one possible route.

  Five years ago today he and Elyssa had first seen the warrior in bronze. The following day an army of beastmen had destroyed the village and slain everyone who dwelled within. Konrad only survived because he had left the valley before the attack began.

  And tomorrow it would again be the first day of summer, Sigmar’s holy day. Would history be repeated? Was that why the mysterious horseman was here, a harbinger of death and destruction?

  Konrad feared so. The bronze rider was the pathfinder, a scout who led the evil swarms of darkness to their target.

  Northern Kislev was a barren and inhospitable region, and the area around Belyevorota Pass was relatively uninhabited. There were a few trading posts, some small isolated villages and forts. The only place of any size was the mine — and that must be the target of the raiders.

  Konrad urged his horse on, back to the place where he had lived for almost five years. That was how long he and Wolf had protected the gold mine from incursions by the northern aggressors, leading the toughest troop of mercenaries ever to operate on the borderlands. Over the past two years they had even succeeded in pressing back the invaders. No longer on the defensive, they had taken the battle to the enemy.

  Then came the Siege of Praag. Despite its ferocity, it had seemed an isolated occurrence: but perhaps the tide of combat had begun to turn…

  Konrad had no proof, not yet. He fervently hoped that he was wrong, but deep in his heart he knew his theory must be right.

  He rode long and hard that day, retracing the route that he and his two comrades had taken a few short days ago. He rested his horse as briefly as possible before pressing on again. He was in a race against time, and sunset arrived far too soon. But the darkness did not slow Konrad. He sped on long into the night, until finally he and his steed could continue no more.

  It had been a long day, a very long day, but it seemed far longer than a single day since he had awoken before dawn and seen the danger that Wolf and Anvila were about to encounter. Then had come his battle against the goblins, when his axe had scythed down the repulsive brutes by the score.

  As he slipped into slumber, Konrad wondered about the bronze rider. Had he really seen the knight? Or was it some delusion inspired by the heat of combat, like his belief that he had wielded a double-headed hammer instead of a twin-bladed axe? But Anvila had also seen the armoured figure, he realized, as exhaustion finally overwhelmed him and he slept.

  He dreamed that he was killing goblins, who were trying to prevent him reaching the bronze knight. And amongst the deformed creatures, leading them and urging them to kill Konrad was Elyssa…

  He awoke abruptly, sweating, his right fist clenched, trying to grip the handle of his nonexistent kris. He sat up, staring at the stars in the black sky, at the two moons, before lying down and falling into another disturbed sleep.

  Soon after dawn, he was back in the saddle, riding across the plain once more, on through the silence and the emptiness, and it was as if he were the only person in the whole world.

  Half a decade ago, a defenceless village had been annihilated. Surely it was impossible for the events of that long ago day in far-off Ostland to be repeated. The mine was heavily fortified, guarded by seasoned troops who were constantly vigilant, who had defeated the benighted legions from the Northern Wastes in countless skirmishes and battles. There was no comparison.

  Yet no matter how many of them were slain, there were always many more of the renegades ready to take their place. Over the past two years, however, they had not seemed so numerous. Had they been building up their forces, preparing for a full-scale assault?

  Numbers alone, however, were not sufficient. Had that been the case, the raiders could have swept across Kislev years ago — as indeed they had once done. Two centuries earlier the marauders had overrun the country, then been driven back after an alliance was agreed between the Tsar and the Emperor. The united armies of two nations had repulsed the invaders, forcing them back into their own dark domain.

  The enemy’s only motive seemed to be to kill, as if that were the sole reason for their existence. Their blood lust was fed by death, any death, and it often appeared as if they were as content to slay one another as they were to kill the humans who blocked their route to the heart of Kislev and beyond, to the Empire.

  The day that they had wiped out Konrad’s village, however, the beastmen had been united in their barbaric mission. And if they had combined their forces today, put aside their own feuds and hatreds until victory was achieved, then the people who lived near the mine were doomed.

  When he saw the pall of dark smoke rising on the horizon far ahead of him, Konrad knew that he was too late.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Konrad rode on and on, spurring his steed ever more furiously, until finally the exhausted horse collapsed beneath him, sending him tumbling to the ground. The animal lay panting, foaming at the mouth, its coat lathered with blood and sweat. Its hind legs kicked out frantically, as though it were still trying to gallop. Then all movement suddenly ceased; the horse was dead.

  Pausing only to collect his sword and axe, his helmet and shield, Konrad ran on, pushing himself as hard as he had his mount.

  By now he was only two or three miles away, could smell the smoke, could see the flames. Although he was downwind, he heard nothing. No sounds of combat, the clash of steel on steel, the battle cries of the warriors — nor the death cries of the wounded…

  Although many miles from the mountain range that marked the boundary of the Old World, the chain of peaks which ran from Kislev in the far north down to the Badlands and beyond in the south, the mine workings were also located in a highland area. Lying in a valley between three towering crags, each of which was linked by a solid line of fortifications, the township was in an ideal position both strategically and defensively. It could never have existed in such a hostile zone for so long and would not have developed into a trading centre for the entire region, had it been otherwise.

  The three peaks each had their own watchtowers, overlooking the plains below — and now all of them were ablaze, consumed by tongues of red and yellow flames. Smoke spiralled up from each crag, but it was as nothing compared to the dense black clouds that rose from the encampment.

  Konrad recalled the first blaze the marauders had lit when they had ravaged his native village. The temple to Sigmar had been set alight, immolating all those who had been worshipping within, a funeral pyre for the living. It was not the burning temple that he remembered most, however: it was the fire which had consumed the manor house — and what had been within…

  He had raced up the hill, hoping that he might somehow find Elyssa still there, still alive. Instead he had seen the most terrifying sight of his ordeal. Despite all the murders and mutilations he had witnessed when he had been caught up in the assault, despite all the hideous creatures that had invaded the village, the image which remained paramount in his mind was that of a man walking unharmed through the inferno that had been the manor house: the man he had called Skullface.

  Despite his appearance, he could not have been a man. He was like all the other travesties of life who had rampaged through the helpless village, a subhuman.

  Yet Konrad had been able to kill many of those with his arrows. Every one he shot had died. Not so Skullface. The black shaft had penetrated deep into his chest, but had been plucked out easily, leaving not a trace of blood, not a sign of a wound.

  The preternaturally thin figure of Skullface had been the first creature Konrad had encountered to be unaffected by a mortal wound. In the five years since, there had been so many more impossible beasts that refused to die until they had been killed in a dozen ways.

  Slaying goblins was easy, but they were amongst humanity’s lesser enemies. Goblins were a part of the Old World, like dwarfs, like mankind. They were not the abhorrent spawn of the Northern Wastes, the Chaos Wastes…

>   It seemed that was where all the creatures known as beastmen had originally come from. As if the frozen wastelands were another world, nothing natural could exist there. It was a land where only evil was born.

  The beings Konrad had encountered in his youth had been degenerate specimens, the descendants of those who had invaded the Empire two centuries earlier. When the incursion had been repulsed, the survivors had fled into the dense forests. Compared with those Konrad had seen since arriving at the frontier, they had been weak and slow — and easy to kill.

  Almost every beastman looked different, and each had to be dispatched in a different way. Skullface had survived an arrow in the heart — or where a human heart should have been. But some of the creatures from the wasteland had a score of hearts, each of which must be savagely stilled before the being surrendered its life, whilst others seemed to have no hearts at all.

  What would have been a fatal wound to a human was nothing more than a scratch to some of these hellbeasts. Limbs severed in combat could take on their own life: a detached leg becoming a lethal serpent, an arm holding a weapon becoming another deadly enemy. Some of the monsters could even split themselves in twain deliberately, a two-headed foe dividing itself into two one-headed antagonists.

  When Konrad slept, he never had nightmares — because no matter what his imagination could conjure, he had dealt with far worse in reality.

  Konrad had slowed his earlier headlong pace to conserve his strength, and now he loped forward in an easy run. He could feel the heat from the inferno for the first time. As he gazed at the flames, he wondered what else he would find beyond the blazing wooden stockade apart from the dead.

  His nostrils twitched as he scented burning flesh, human flesh. He slowed for a moment, wondering why he was continuing. There was nothing he could do to save anyone within the mine area, he was too late for that. The only things alive would be beastmen — if such abominations could ever truly be called alive.