The Ambassador Chronicles

by Graham McNeill

  The Kossars waved at them to stop, but Kaspar had neither the time nor the inclination to waste his breath on them now. He rode past the Kislevite soldiers, galloping hard for the open gateway, his knights following close behind with wild yells at the confused Kislevites.

  They rode out onto the cold, windswept expanse of the Gora Geroyev and Kaspar stood tall in the stirrups, desperately seeking any sign of where Anastasia might have gone. He turned the air blue with his oaths, unable to see her and felt a terrible powerlessness.

  Kaspar kicked back his spurs and rode over to a group of red and gold liveried arquebusiers who sat beside a flickering cookfire brewing some soldiers' harsh-tasting tea.

  'The White Lady of Kislev! Have you seen her?' he shouted.

  'Aye,' replied a Talabecland sergeant, pointing to the base of the hill. 'The good lady headed down that way, sir.'

  'How long ago?' demanded Kaspar, wheeling his horse.

  'A few minutes ago, no more.'

  Kaspar nodded his thanks and raked back his spurs, risking life and limb as he thundered downhill, barely avoiding pockets of soldiers, camp followers and rocks in his mad rush. He shouted at people to get out of his way and left angry yells and curses in his wake as the knights followed him, their passage made easier by the ambassador's frenetic ride.

  He reined in Magnus and again stood high in the stirrups, twisting left and right.

  Kaspar's heart raced as he finally saw her, a few hundred yards away, her white cloak a beacon amidst the muddiness of the campsite. She stood at the back of a small cart, a coffin of bronze glinting in the sunlight.

  'Kurt!' he yelled, pointing to the bottom of the hill. 'With me!'

  He whipped Magnus hard and leaned low in the saddle as he guided his mount through the crowded camp towards Anastasia.

  She turned as he drew near, hearing the thunder of horsemen approaching her, and Kaspar was left in no doubt that she had been the architect of his woes as she smiled at him with a predatory coquettishness.

  'I knew you would come.' she said as he dismounted from his panting horse.

  'Whatever that thing is.' begged Kaspar, pointing to the rusted coffin, 'I beg you not to open it.'

  There were only two padlocks securing it shut and Kaspar could feel a terrifying threat emanating from within.

  'Begging, Kaspar?' laughed Anastasia. 'I thought that was beneath you. You were always so proud, but I think maybe that was what made you so easy to manipulate.'

  'Anastasia.' said Kaspar as the Knights Panther dismounted and a crowd of curious onlookers began gathering around the unfolding drama. 'Don't do it.'

  'It is too late, Kaspar. This is corrupting entropy given physical form and such a beauteous thing cannot be kept confined for long, it must be allowed free rein to do what it was created to do.'

  'Why, Anastasia? Why are you doing this?'

  Anastasia smiled at him. 'These are the last days, Kaspar. Don't you feel it? The Lord of the End Times walks the earth and this world is ready to fall to Chaos. If you knew what awaits these lands at the hands of Lord Archaon, you would drop to your knees and beg me to open this coffin.'

  'You would kill everyone here, Anastasia?' asked Kaspar. 'There are thousands of people here. Innocents. Women and children. Are you really such a monster?'

  'I would kill everyone here a dozen times over for Tchar!' laughed Anastasia and turned her back on him, slipping a key into the coffin's penultimate padlock.

  Kaspar dragged out his pistols and aimed them at her back.

  She cocked her head as she heard the click of the flintlocks.

  'Anastasia, please! Don't do this.'

  Kaspar saw her turn the key and the padlock crumbled to powder. Seething horror seeped from the coffin lid and the crowds surrounding them began muttering in fear as they felt the malign power strain at its confinement.

  'Stop. Please stop this,' pleaded Kaspar, the pistols trembling in his hands.

  'You cannot do it, can you?' said Anastasia without turning. 'You're not able to murder me in cold blood. It is not in your nature.'

  She placed the key in the last lock.

  And Kaspar shot her in the back.

  Anastasia sagged against the coffin, a neat hole blasted through her cloak.

  She gripped onto the cart and struggled to face him, her face twisted in pain and disbelief.

  'Kaspar...?' she gasped, and he felt something die inside him as a hateful rose of bright blood welled on her white cloak. She put a hand to her chest, her fingers coming away stained crimson.

  Kaspar fell to his knees, tears blurring his vision as Anastasia fought to stay upright.

  She reached for the key and Kaspar fired his second pistol into her chest, the bullet slamming her against the side of the cart and pitching her to the ground.

  She dropped to the mud, her eyes glazing over in death.

  And Kaspar saw that he was too late.

  The last padlock fell from the coffin as a fine dust, blowing away in the deathly gust that seethed from the unlocked lid.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I

  Like the soft exhalation of a drowned corpse, a low moaning issued from the coffin and wisps of a sparkling mist seeped from the gap between the lid and sides. The coffin rattled and shook with unnatural life. Snaking tendrils of iridescent mist whipped from its corrupt depths as the lid flew open and a sparkling jet of coloured light and vapour fountained from inside.

  A Stirland pikeman was the first to die, the spectral light wreathing him in glittering mist that ripped the flesh from his bones as he was turned inside out by its mutating power. His scream turned to a gurgle as the collection of disembodied muscles and organs he had become collapsed in a steaming pile. Another man died as the light enveloped him and he sprouted appendages from every square inch of his flesh: arms, hands, heads and legs bursting forth from his skin in a welter of blood and splintered bone.

  Everything the spreading mist of corrupt light touched warped into some new and bizarre form, men reduced to boneless, jellylike masses of flesh, women bloating into fat, glossy skinned harpies with distended, vestigial wings. The ground itself writhed under its touch, brightly patterned grass and outlandish plants springing forth from the unnaturally fecund earth.

  Kaspar backed away in horror from the coffin, which was now almost obscured by the multi-coloured spume that spread further with every passing second. Screams and cries of terror spread before its mutating power and he cursed himself for not firing sooner.

  He and his knights ran for their horses, but Kaspar had no intention of riding away from this hellish power. He knew what he planned would destroy him and just hoped that more people would be able to outpace this daemon-spawned power before it killed every living soul.

  The knights climbed into their saddles and Kaspar watched them ride off with heavy heart. They had served him faithfully and he had not had time to tell them how honoured he had been to have them with him in Kislev. The corrupting light was almost upon him and he wondered if he would even be able to reach the coffin and close it before its power turned him into some hellish abomination. Would closing it even stop it?

  He didn't know, but he had to try.

  Shapes writhed in the misty light and Kaspar gave thanks that he could not see them clearly, their piteous cries of agony tearing at his heart. Monstrous silhouettes thrashed in their agonies and mutated beasts that had once been men gorged themselves on the flesh of the dead.

  Kaspar reached his horse and climbed into the saddle, twisting as he heard the beat of hooves coming towards him and someone shout his name. He searched for the source of the shout and saw Sasha Kajetan riding around the colourful light towards him. He grabbed for his pistols before realising that he had fired both of them, and reached for his sword.

  Kicking his feet from the stirrups, Kajetan leapt from the saddle and crashed into the ambassador. The two men slammed into the ground, the breath driven from Kaspar's lungs by the impact. He rolled onto his
side and tried to pick himself up, but fell as his knee gave out under him.

  Kajetan stood above him, and Kaspar could not help but shudder at the ruin of a man he had become. Gone was the fierce, proud swordsman and in his place, a wasted, desperate creature of pain and misery. Kaspar managed to pull himself to his knees with a grunt of pain and unsheathed his blade, saying, 'Stay back, Kajetan.' as the dazzling mist crept forwards.

  'Ambassador von Velten...' hissed Kajetan, and Kaspar could see that the swordsman was badly injured. Rejak obviously did not die without a giving a good account of himself.

  The swordsman stared at the rainbow-streaked froth that bubbled from the coffin and said, 'I told you there was thing I was yet to do.'

  'We don't have time for this, Kajetan. I have to stop this.' said Kaspar, brandishing his sword before him.

  'I told you there was thing I was yet to do.' repeated the swordsman, as though Kaspar had not spoken. 'And I told you that it involved you.'

  The swordsman looked away from the ambassador as he heard an approaching horseman. 'No time.' he said and reached for Kaspar.

  Kaspar roared and thrust with his sword, the blade plunging into Kajetan's belly and ripping from his back. Blood burst from the wound and the swordsman grunted, hammering his fist against the ambassador's jaw. Kaspar dropped, but Kajetan dragged him to his feet and thrust his unresisting body towards the knight who galloped towards him with a roar of fury.

  Kurt Bremen had ridden back as soon as he had realised that the ambassador had not fled with them and reined in his horse with his sword raised to strike Kajetan down.

  'You!' gasped Kajetan, 'take him and get him out of here!'

  Taken aback, Bremen lowered his weapon when he realised what Kajetan was planning. The knight sheathed his blade, taking the ambassador from the swordsman and hauling him up behind the neck of his warhorse. He nodded his thanks towards Kajetan, watching in amazement as the man climbed into the saddle of his own horse, Kaspar's sword still lodged deep in his belly.

  'I said go!' shouted Kajetan before riding hard towards the hellish epicentre of the brightly coloured nightmare.

  II

  The pain threatened to overwhelm him, but Sasha held it in check as he rode through the scintillating fog of light. Creatures that had once been human thrashed and mewed piteously all around him; wild fronds of ever-changing plant matter whipping from the ground and a breathless fertility saturating the air itself.

  His breath writhed with life as the power of change seized it, flickering like tiny fireflies in front of him. Briefly he wondered what black miracles and dark wonders might be worked with his other bodily fluids: his spit, his blood or his seed.

  He could feel his horse stagger beneath him as the corrupting power overtook it. Rippling bulges seethed from the beasts flanks and it screamed as ungainly, feathered wings burst from its body, malformed and gelatinous. The horse tripped and fell, throwing him from its back as it thrashed in pain. He hit the ground hard and rolled, crying in agony as the sword blade jammed in his body twisted and cut him wider.

  Sasha ripped it free and hurled it aside, falling to his knees as the pain surged around his body. Blood flooded from the wound and he knew he had only moments at best. Obscene flowers rippled from the ground where his blood fell, each one with the face of his matka, and he pushed himself upright.

  He swayed and limped towards the cart bearing the coffin, dazzling lights bursting before his eyes, but he couldn't be sure if it was death reaching out to finally claim him or the power within the coffin. A blinding corona of light surrounded it and he had to shield his eyes as he climbed onto the cart and stared into its depths.

  He was not surprised to see a body in the coffin, but this was one with veins that ran with fire and eyes shining with the light at the centre of creation. He felt the powerful magicks that had gone into this thing's creation: the fell, arcane science of the underfolk and the dark sorcery of Chaos.

  The eyes rolled in their sockets, fixing him with a gaze that contained everything that had or might one day exist in the world. He felt himself stripped bare by its power, the flesh blackening on his bones as it consumed him. But he had one last gift for this world, one last way to achieve the atonement he craved.

  His stomach heaved and he leaned forward to stare into the burning eyes of the writhing corpse of light. Its slack jaw opened and its breath was creation itself.

  But if its breath was creation, his was destruction, and he spewed a froth of his deadly black vomit across its face. The light was blotted out as the viscous black liquid ate away at the corpse, burning it and melting it to stinking matter. Its malice screamed in his head, but he knew it was powerless to prevent its ending.

  Sasha's world was pain as his body burned with the power of raw magics fleeing the corpse's dissolution, but he kept the black vomit coming, emptying himself before finally collapsing onto the sloshing remains.

  His chest hiked and he tried to move, but there was nothing left of him.

  The swordsman smiled as he saw a vision of radiant light growing from behind a slowly opening gateway. He reached out to touch the light.

  And all the pain and the guilt and the terror and the anger and the trueself were swept away, leaving nothing but Sasha Kajetan, his matka's handsome prince.

  There was nothing left to do.

  He could die now.

  III

  The devastation unleashed by Anastasia Vilkova accounted for three hundred and seventy souls, most of whom were lucky to have perished in the opening moments of the swirling maelstrom. Other, less fortunate victims, were later shot down by weeping arquebusiers or otherwise put out of their misery by horrified pikemen.

  Still other creatures, vile mutated abominations fled to the steppe to howl at the moon and stars in loathing for what they had become. The site of the carnage became a reviled place and within the hour that part of the camp had been forsaken, its tents left standing and every possession abandoned. No one had dared approach the wrecked cart that lay at the centre of the abandoned place, and during the night a freak ice storm of terrifying magnitude swept across the blighted ground, obliterating everything still alive, the grass, the unnatural plants and wiping away the taint of Chaos.

  By morning, only a crystalline wilderness remained, and whatever had begun the terrifying events of the previous morning was now buried forever beneath an unyielding layer of imperishable ice.

  It was a fitting tomb for Sasha Kajetan, thought Kaspar. A place where he would never again be tormented by the daemons of his past or those conjured within him by others.

  Despite all that had happened, he could not bring himself to hate Sasha - a man who had twice saved his life. Sofia was right: Kajetan had not been born a monster, but made into one, and if his last act as a human being had been to save thousands of lives... well, that was redemption enough for Kaspar.

  As to how that redemption balanced with the atrocities he had committed as the Butcherman, he didn't know, but Kaspar hoped that Sasha had at least earned a chance at absolution in the next world.

  He turned away from the icy graveyard, knowing that Anastasia's body was also buried beneath the ice forever and felt the peculiar mixture of anger, sadness and guilt that came whenever he thought of her. She had been about to kill tens of thousands of people, but that didn't make the fact that he had shot a woman in the back any easier to deal with. Kaspar knew he had done the right thing, but he would never forget the look of hurt and disbelief in her eyes as she fell to the ground.

  Though Kaspar had not seen the swordsman's last ride into the deadly mist of light, Bremen had told him later how there had been a final blaze of energy in the midst of the shining fog before it had quickly faded away to nothing. Whatever Kajetan had done to stop it from killing everyone was a mystery that Kaspar supposed might never be solved.

  He guided his horse towards the city, riding slowly through the mass of soldiers preparing to march northwards to meet a terrible enemy. So
ldiers saluted as he passed, word of his new rank having spread quickly through the regiments. Though he still wore the black and gold of Nuln, he had caparisoned Magnus in the green and yellow of Stirland to show his men that he was now one of them.

  At a gathering of the senior surviving officers of the Empire forces, he had again made his offer to take command of the leaderless Stirland army. Spitzaner had made his objections plain, but with no one else capable of handling a force of such size, his words carried little weight.

  It was a simple fact of war that there were those who made brilliant regimental commanders, but floundered at higher levels of command, or men who could direct the forces of an entire province, but who had no idea of how to give orders to a battalion. Within the armies of the Empire, it was common for most men who attained command to settle at their level of competency and thus far, no one but Kaspar had volunteered to take the reins of command.

  The idea of leading men into battle once more sent a thrill of anticipation through him, and though he knew it was foolish and he would regret it the moment the first blood was shed, he found himself - like a new recruit - eager for battle. To reach Urszebya before the High Zar, the allied forces marched at dawn the following day; the Stirland army, which he would lead, the Talabecland army of Clemenz Spitzaner and the Kislev pulk that would fight with the Ice Queen at its head.

  Twenty-five thousand fighting men, now known by the soldiers as the Urszebya pulk, to face a rumoured forty thousand. Boyarin Kurkosk was marching east with nearly twenty thousand warriors, but it was unlikely he would arrive before battle was joined, and there was no time to wait for him.

  If they defeated the High Zar's army, it would be the most spectacular victory since the Great War against Chaos. But if they lost...

  Kaspar still did not fully understand what power might rest within the standing stones at Urszebya, but the Kislevites obviously felt they were important enough to risk open battle with much larger force.

  There was a glorious madness to all this, but Kaspar knew full well the reality of what they were marching towards. Blood and death, horror and loss. Cyenwulf had defeated every army that had stood against him and his force had grown larger with each victory.