The Ambassador Chronicles

by Graham McNeill

  His vision was blurring, but he saw shapes forming in the mist, indistinct forms fashioning themselves from the insubstantial matter into something else entirely.

  All down the length of the valley the strange mist closed with the battling Kurgans and bellowed war-cries turned to shouts of panic as the tribesmen saw what approached them. Ghostly figures of mist charged them with shadow-formed axes and swords. Shaped from their most deathly fears, the mist warriors attacked the Kurgan warriors, and though their bodies and weapons were fashioned from mist and smoke, they slew whatever they struck.

  Kaspar watched amazed as the shadowy warriors of the mist slaughtered the Kurgan warriors, one minute appearing as huge, bearskinned warriors of ancient Kislev, the next soldiers of the Empire and then again as primitive warriors wearing the pelts of wild animals. There was something primal and elemental about them and they drove the Kurgans back without mercy. He twisted painfully to watch the Tzarina, seeing her wreathed in a writhing snowstorm, tendrils of smoke and light stabbing through her and outwards into the land.

  And Kaspar recognised who these mist warriors were in that instant, realising why the Tzarina had been so adamant that the battle be fought here.

  As the Kurgan army disintegrated under the unstoppable assault of these warriors, Kaspar knew that the Tzarina had tapped into something ancient and deadly dangerous, the power of the land, the elemental energy that was the source of all her own strength. Called to defend itself, she had given the land a means to strike back at those who defiled it and sought to do it harm.

  A bellowing roar of pain shook the snow from the valley sides and Kaspar watched as the misty warriors surrounded the enormous monster before him, driving it back down the valley. It may have been old when the world was young, but this land had endured throughout the ages and had a power that could not be denied.

  The beast was soon lost to sight amidst the howling winds and screeching voices on the air, and Kaspar leaned back as the sounds of battle faded.

  He cried out as he felt hands lift his head and groaned in pain, seeing Kurt Bremen kneeling beside him. The knight's skin was the colour of parchment and streaked with blood.

  Behind the knight stood the Ice Queen, unsteady on her feet with a fading halo of winter's light surrounding her.

  'Did we win?' asked Kaspar.

  'I think so, Kaspar,' said the Ice Queen, her voice hollow and drained. 'The land of Kislev is unforgiving.'

  'Good,' he said. 'I'd have hated to go through all this for nothing.'

  'You have been a true son of Kislev, Kaspar von Velten,' said the Ice Queen, kneeling beside him and taking his hand. Kaspar expected her hand to be cold, but it was warmer than his and he smiled.

  'Thank you, your majesty,' whispered Kaspar.

  The Ice Queen leaned close and kissed his cheek and again Kaspar was struck by the fact that her flesh wasn't cold after all, but warm and soft. She stood and gave him a smile of thanks before turning and walking off into the gathering evening.

  'Kurt,' said the ambassador, his voice little more than a whisper.

  'Yes?'

  'Will you do something for me?'

  'Of course. You know I will.'

  Kaspar reached beneath his breastplate and pulled out something from the pocket of his shirt. He held out his hand and said, 'Take this.'

  'What is it?' said Bremen, opening his palm.

  Kaspar placed a pendant with a thin silver chain and a smooth blue stone wrapped in a web of silver wire into Bremen's palm and closed his finger over it.

  'Give this to Sofia, Kurt. And tell her...'

  'Tell her what?' said the Knight Panther as the ambassador's words trailed off.

  'Tell her... that I am sorry... sorry I couldn't keep my promise.'

  Kurt Bremen nodded, tears coursing down his cheeks.

  'I will.' he said.

  XV

  With the death of High Zar Aelfric Cyenwulf and the retreat of the Old One, the Kurgan army melted like snow before the spring thaw. As the survivors of the Kurgan horde fled the valley, the warriors of the mist faded, swirling in the spring breeze until there was nothing left of them save the distant echoes of ancient war cries.

  The warriors of the Urszebya pulk watched the fleeing Kurgans, but did not give pursuit, too exhausted by the furious battle to do more than collapse and weep or give thanks for their lives.

  Truly it is said that the only thing more grievous than a battle lost is a battle won. The men of the Empire and Kislev mourned together and gave thanks together as the night closed in and the pyres for the dead were built.

  Too many had died and the loss was too near for there to be any thought of victory celebrations; those would come later. As night closed in, the only movement across the steppe was a lone knight riding sadly for the south.

  Epilogue

  Six months later...

  I

  After the great victory at Urszebya, the fighting in Kislev dragged on. The days of wars being settled in one great battle were long since past and there were many skirmishes and slaughters to take place before the final outcome of the war was decided at a place of ancient legend.

  The accounts of these battles have since passed into the annals of history: the Battle of Iron Gate, the Relief of Zavstra, the Defence of Bolgasgrad, the Siege of Kislev, the Sack of Erengrad and countless others, but such are tales for a different time, and there were heroes made in these days who would live on in song for hundreds of years.

  It was a time of heroes and a time of great sorrow.

  Truly was it named the Year That No One Forgets.

  II

  Vassily Chekatilo halted his convoy of wagons at the top of a grassy rise on the slope that led down to the bustling city of Marienburg with its vast docks, sprawling mercantile houses and lively trading districts. The great forests of the Empire were behind him and he could see the glittering azure expanse of the Sea of Claws ahead of him. Tall ships with billowing sails crossed the seas here, bound for all manner of exotic ports and strange destinations. Marienburg was a wretched hive of scum and villainy, and now that he had arrived, it was time for the local criminals to watch out.

  The journey across the Empire had been fraught with danger and risk, but the papers he had extorted from von Velten had seen him past the worst of it, as had the hundred soldiers he had been able to appropriate thanks to the ambassador's seal.

  Most of those soldiers had since returned to the Empire, blind patriotism that Chekatilo did not understand taking them back to wars that would no doubt see most of them die in agony. It was of no matter though, he had coin enough to pay for mercenary soldiers and, since the money was good, they had protected him well enough.

  The River Reik foamed downhill towards the city below, its red tiled roofs beckoning him onwards, and Chekatilo could sense nothing but possibilities opening before him. He cracked the reins of his horses and guided his wagon train downhill towards his bright new future.

  But Chekatilo had not noticed the stowaway hiding in the rearmost cart of his convoy, concealed beneath an oiled canvas tarpaulin, a bloated, albino-furred rat with a strange triangular brand on its back.

  Its hidden masters had marked this man-thing for death and such decrees were never disobeyed or forgotten. Fortunately the rat could sense the presence of many of its brethren below the man-city ahead.

  It waited...

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