Warhammer - [The Ambassador Chronicles 01] - The Ambassador

by Graham McNeill

  Sasha knew that the beast was finished and drew his sword, quickly slashing its throat to spare it from freezing to death. He bathed his hands in the animal's blood, feeling the pain race around his digits as the warm liquid spilled over them. Steam gusted from its ruined throat and Kajetan bade the animal's soul a good journey.

  The heat of its blood and the hot, metallic scent brought unwelcome memories to him and he shook his head, unwilling to face them as he saw a pale, glowing nimbus of light form in the air before him. He moaned in fear as the shape resolved into a soft feminine face, smiling and ringed with auburn curls of hair.

  He could hear laughter in his head and the scent of his horse's blood suddenly magnified until he could smell nothing but its vital fluid and the tantalising scent of its warm flesh. Sasha dropped to his knees and placed his mouth over the wound in the animals neck and ripped a chunk of meat free. It was tough and stringy, the beast having lost much of its fat over the last few day, but as he chewed and felt the blood run down his chin, he felt stronger than he had in days, as though the essence of the beast's strength were passing to him.

  Again his mother was watching over him and he roared as he felt new strength fill him, pulsing around his body with unnatural vigour. Once again she had kept him safe and he knew that he must be close to his destination.

  He turned from the dead animal and set off once more, pausing only to gather up his swords and bow. His stride was long and sure and he made good time through the thick snow. As daylight faded, he did not stop, but pressed on throughout the night, the incredible vitality that had filled him upon eating the flesh of his mount still infusing his limbs with power.

  DAWN BROKE, ACHINGLY bright and clear, and he gasped as he saw the familiar rocky outcrop he had known as the Dragon's Tooth as a child. The upthrust rock curled over like the tooth of a gigantic beast of legend and he remembered that his mother had once told him that it had belonged to a fiery dragon that had tried to eat the world only to be foiled by another dragon that continually chased it around the world.

  Sasha remembered that the Dragon's Tooth was visible from the tallest room of his father's halls and set off again at a run, each stride fire in his lungs as the ground sloped upwards to a tree-lined ridge of evergreens. He scrambled for an hour through the snow, anticipation making him clumsy, until he reached the lip of the ridge and stared down into the hollow of his father's lands. For a moment all his cares vanished like morning mist and he felt an overwhelming sense of welcome and homecoming - as though from the very land itself.

  A pair of foaming tributaries meandered down from the high country, looping across the valley floor before joining to form the River Tobol on the near side of a gently sloping hill. Atop the hill was a ruined keep of black stone, its walls cast down and layered in snow. His fathers halls, abandoned and unwanted. Jagged timber roof beams speared from the walls and where there had once been a timber palisade there was now only a snow-filled ditch and a pair of splintered posts.

  Home.

  Further out, as the land rose in a gentle slope, was a thick forest of dark, densely packed evergreen trees and beyond even that was the distant shapes of the snow capped peaks of the World's Edge Mountains. The sky was gloriously clear and birds wheeled overhead, cawing loudly in their airborne kingdom and welcoming him home.

  Sasha made his way into the hollow, pushing through the thick snow, a sudden sense of uneasiness building within him as he approached the place where everything had begun: his shame, his terror and finally, his liberation - or damnation - he wasn't sure which.

  The earlier elation and strength that had fuelled his mad, all-night scramble through the wilderness evaporated and he sank to his knees, tears coursing down his cheeks as he stared up at the bleak hillside and the ruined hall at its summit.

  'Why did you hate me so?' he shouted at the dark silhouette. 'Why?'

  Birds took flight from their trees, startled by his yelling and the echoes that rippled back from the sides of the hollow. No answer was forthcoming, and nor did he expect one; his father was years in his grave and his mother had taken every step to ensure that no necromancer or fiend could raise him from it, burying him face down and nailing his burial vestments to the coffin with silver nails.

  He felt the tears freezing on his cheek and scrambled to his feet, fording the tributary at its lowest point and beginning the climb to the mount's summit. His steps were halting and weaving, his strength and courage fading with every step he took.

  Covered in sweat like a layer of frost on his body, he reached the blackened walls of the ruin and leaned against their reassuringly firm bulk. The stonework was black and glassy, worn smooth by hundreds of years of lashing winds, and he followed the walls around to the back of the building, supporting himself the entire way.

  The ground here was uneven, two mounds of snow slightly raised from the uniform flatness of the rest of the summit. Each mound was topped with a simple carved headstone, the lettering faded and worn down by the elements.

  He didn't need to see the lettering to know what they said; he had memorised the words long ago and found he could still remember every one.

  He released his grip on the wall and staggered over to the grave on the right and dropped to the ground, hugging the cold granite of the headstone tightly. He cried onto the stone and slowly slipped down until he was lying in a foetal position before his mother's grave.

  'I'm here,' he said softly. 'Your handsome prince is home, matka...'

  Sasha felt the cold seep into his bones and knew that he was going to die here.

  The thought did not trouble him overmuch, but the thought of dying alone roused him from his suicidal melancholy. Slowly and painfully he raised himself up and began clearing the snow away from her grave, smiling when he reached the cold, hard earth.

  Sasha's hands were like blocks of ice themselves, and he could not feel the pain of digging in the frozen earth with his fingers. His nails tore off and his fingers were bloody in seconds, but he did not stop.

  Nothing would stop them from being reunited. He would keep digging until his fingers were nothing more than bloody stumps of bone if he had to.

  V

  KASPAR STOOD ATOP a rocky crag overlooking the slow flowing Tobol and drained the last of his tea, shivering in the cold night air and staring northwards into the starlit darkness of the steppe. Behind him, the Knights Panther built up the fires that would keep their mounts warm through the night and prepared space to sleep for themselves. Kurt Bremen sharpened his sword with a worn down whetstone, though Kaspar was sure it was as sharp as it was possible to be.

  It was dangerous to be out on the steppe this far north, but Kaspar knew that so long as they were careful to only light their fires at night and in depressions in the landscape, the greatest danger was not roving bands of raiders or southerly riding tribesmen, but the cold emptiness of the steppe itself.

  Unlike Kajetan, they had not simply ridden north into the depths of the snowy wasteland. They had instead been forced to ride west along the northern bank of the Urskoy, resting their horses at each stanista they encountered, until they reached the point where the slow flowing Tobol joined the Urskoy. Following the touchstone of the river would lead them straight to where Kaspar knew in his gut the murderous swordsman would be.

  It had cost them valuable days to travel this way, but there was simply no other option. To ride into the steppe would be to die - a point Pavel and Pashenko had both made when they learned of the ambassadors plan to hunt Kajetan. But they had made swift progress and, by Bremen's reckoning, they should come upon the fork in the Tobol by mid-morning of the following day. Kaspar had forgotten how much he relished riding into the wilderness, the thrill of exploring unknown vistas and witnessing nature at its most savage and beautiful.

  Though he told himself he was a pragmatist, Kaspar knew that he had a wild, quixotic core that lived for such experiences, even harsh and dangerous ones such as this - why else would he have become a
soldier? The past week had been hard on him though, painfully reminding him that he was no longer a young man. His knee ached abominably and despite the thick gloves Pavel had given him, he could barely feel his fingers.

  Pavel had been drunk when Kaspar and the knights had set off after Kajetan, a fact that caused the ambassador no small amount of concern. Far from the grim elation that had gripped Kaspar and the Knights Panther, Pavel's mood had been sullen and withdrawn ever since Rejak had brought them the map, and Kaspar had been disappointed that his old comrade had not even bothered to say farewell or wish them luck on their hunt.

  How Chekatilo had known that Kaspar had needed such information was a mystery, but he was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Sofia had wished him success and Anastasia had kissed him fiercely, making him promise to come back safely. Gathering what supplies they would need for their journey, Kaspar and the Knights Panther had set off into the frozen steppe and he had felt a building finality to this journey, a sense that they were embarked upon the last steps of some momentous event whose consequences he could not even begin to fathom.

  He trudged away from the rocky crag and descended into the lee of the tall boulders surrounding the place Kurt Bremen had selected as tonight's campsite. He rinsed his tin mug with snow and placed it inside Magnus's saddlebags before joining Bremen at the fireside. Valdhaas had walked the animal and brushed its flanks before throwing thick blankets and furs over it. As much as Kaspar enjoyed the splendour of the wilderness, he was grateful that the knight was relieving him of the time-consuming and tiring task of keeping his horse fit for travel. It was all very well grooming a horse in a well-appointed stable; quite another to look after it in the bleak steppe.

  The fire crackled warmly, and Kaspar opened his cloak, allowing the heat to reach his body. On the other side of the fire, Bremen continued to sharpen his sword, careful to keep his eyes averted from the fire and preserve his night vision.

  'Sharp enough?' asked Kaspar, nodding at the sword.

  'A good blade can never be too sharp,' answered Bremen.

  'I suppose not. You are expecting to use it?'

  'Aye,' nodded the knight. 'If we do not encounter Kajetan or kyazak horsemen, then there are older, fouler things than men in this land.'

  'There are indeed,' agreed Kaspar. 'There are indeed.'

  'You know Kajetan's probably dead, don't you?' said Bremen at last, broaching the subject that none of them had talked about since they had left Kislev. The sheer numbing vastness of the steppe made virtually every subject of conversation seem meaningless and trite and each man had spent the journey alone with his thoughts. Only as darkness closed in and a man's surroundings became more comprehensible did it feel that words had reclaimed their meaning, and the knights spoke to one another as though they might never get another chance.

  'Ambassador?' said Bremen when Kaspar didn't answer.

  'It's possible,' allowed Kaspar eventually, unwilling to be drawn too heavily on the subject.

  'Possible? If I may be blunt, Ambassador von Velten, you are not a stupid man, you must know that Kajetan is probably lying dead in a snowdrift right now. A death that's far too easy for someone as evil as him, if you ask me.'

  'Evil, Kurt? You think Kajetan is evil?'

  Bremen stopped his sharpening and looked quizzically at Kaspar. 'Of course I do. After what he did to Madame Valencik and my men, don't you?'

  'I did, yes, but having heard Sofia talk about Kajetan, I'm not sure any more. She said that dismissing what he did just by saying he's evil doesn't really solve anything.'

  'What do you think she meant?'

  'I think she meant that it's easy to describe Kajetan as evil,' said Kaspar, 'because it's seductive and doesn't require any self-reflection or assessment of the context for his acts. Sofia said that Sasha Kajetan wasn't born a monster, but that he was made into one and I think she's right. She said that if we simply label him as evil and use that as a convenient explanation for his crimes, we're spared from asking why he acted as he did, what drove him to such vile, unthinkable acts.'

  'Very well, so why do you think he committed these crimes if not for evil's sake?'

  'I don't think we'll ever know that for sure, Kurt. Maybe if we take him alive we can find out.'

  'Are you that sure you really want to know, Kaspar? It won't be easy taking a man like Kajetan prisoner. I won't allow any more of my men to be killed needlessly, and if I don't think we can capture him safely...'

  'I understand, Kurt, and if it comes to it, I'll kill him myself. Have no fear of that.' 'Good. We understand each other then,' said the knight. Kaspar nodded and said, 'We should try and get some sleep. I have a feeling we will need all our strength tomorrow.' Kaspar did not know how right he was.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I

  THE MORNING SUN rose early, and it felt to Kaspar as though he had just put his head down to sleep when its brightness roused him from his dreams. He sat up, feeling the cold seep into his bones as he pulled away his furred blankets. The Knights Panther were already awake, rubbing down their horses and ensuring their mounts were fed and watered before seeing to their own needs.

  The fires had smouldered down to glowing embers and a knight went round each one in turn, dumping handfuls of snow on them to extinguish them without smoke. Kaspar pushed himself to his feet, rubbing his knee and wincing as his aged frame protested at another night spent on the ground instead of a soft bed.

  'Good morning, Kurt.' he said as Bremen climbed down from the craggy ridge above.

  'Ambassador.' acknowledged the knight, pulling his panther pelt pelisse over his shoulder guard. Bremen chewed on a hunk of black bread and cheese and tore off a piece for Kaspar.

  The ambassador took it gratefully, wolfing down the meagre breakfast as he shivered in the cold air. Quickly he pulled on his many layers of clothing and finally dragged on the thick, bearskin cloak that kept out the worst of the Kislevite weather.

  'I think today we should reach our destination.' he said.

  'Aye.' agreed Bremen, 'if the map is accurate enough then I think we'll be there before noon.'

  Kaspar nodded and climbed to the top of the crags where he had stared out over the steppe the previous night. He stiffly walked away from the campsite to find some privacy and empty his full bladder, returning to find that Valdhaas had saddled his horse and was rubbing warmth into its forelegs. He smiled his thanks to the knight and lifted his pistol belt from where it hung on the saddle horn. Both pistols were primed and loaded, though the flintlocks were safely pushed forwards. His sword was tied behind the saddle and he drew it, enjoying the sensation of its finely balanced weight in his palm.

  Beautifully crafted by Holberecht of Nuln, the blue-steel blade was smooth and double edged, narrowing to a fine tip that could penetrate the hardest mail shirts. The hilt was of black iron, wound with soft leather and finished with a rounded pommel of bronze. Simply but elegantly designed, it was a functional weapon, forged by a craftsman who understood exactly what a sword was for: killing.

  'May I?' asked Kurt Bremen, admiring the blade after readying his own horse.

  'Certainly.' said Kaspar, reversing the blade and handing it to the Knight Panther.

  Kaspar was a competent swordsman, but he watched in awe as Kurt Bremen swung the sword about his body in a series of intricate manoeuvres. The blade glittered in the morning light, each cut, thrust and block flawlessly executed and designed to kill an opponent quickly and efficiently.

  Bremen spun the blade and returned it to Kaspar.

  'It is a fine, trustworthy blade,' said Bremen, 'well balanced and with a good weight, though perhaps centred a little too far from the tip for my liking.'

  'It was commissioned specially for me.' explained Kaspar.

  'Ah, then the weight is distributed to your preference.'

  'Yes, Holberecht and I spent many weeks sparring together with different weapons so he could accurately gauge my strength and reach before he ev
er laid hammer on iron.'

  'A craftsman worthy of the name then.' said Bremen.

  'Aye, he is a man of rare skill.' agreed Kaspar, sheathing the blade.

  Kaspar planted his foot in his horse's leather stirrup and hauled himself into the saddle, the knights swiftly following his example. Bremen swung onto his own mount and plucked his lance from the snow, resting its butt in the toughened leather cup buckled to his saddle.

  The other knights followed suit and as the standard of the Knights Panther rose above the mounted warriors, they bowed their heads in prayer to Sigmar. They prayed a verse particular to their order and Kaspar silently whispered his own words of devotion to the Empire's warrior god, asking for the strength and courage to face whatever trials this new day might bring.

  Their prayers complete, Kurt Bremen shouted, 'Knights Panther, ho!' and kicked back his spurs, leading them into the north.

  II

  ONCE AGAIN, THE unending emptiness of the steppe overwhelmed them, and they rode in silence for several hours, the sun climbing further and further into the cloudless sky. The Tobol flowed darkly alongside them, the soft white noise of its waters quietly comforting and hypnotic as the cold winds whipped along its length.

  Noon came and went with no sign of the fork in the river and Kaspar hoped that the map had not been grossly inaccurate in its depiction of scale. They had, at best, another few days' worth of food and fodder before they would have to turn back, and the thought of failing so close to their goal would be galling indeed.

  Soon after Bremen called a halt for a rest stop, Valdhaas, who had been riding ahead of the main body of knights, rode back with an excited cast to his features. He carried his lance aloft, its purple pennons snapping noisily with the speed of his gallop.

  He reined in his horse in a flurry of snow. 'A mile ahead, perhaps a little more, there is a small valley where the river forks at the base of a hill. There is a ruined hall at its top and some smaller outbuildings strewn about the valley. I believe that is our destination.'