01 - Star of Erengrad

by Neil McIntosh - (ebook by Undead)

  The Forest of Shadows had held them in its chill grip for the better part of two long weeks. Now, surely, it was ready to let them go. Nothing was said, but it was as though all of them could sense a turning point had been reached. They would be out of the forest before long.

  The subject of the beastmen had never been far from the riders’ thoughts, and they returned to it again that morning. Not for a moment did Stefan imagine that they had seen the last of them. The handful that they had come upon were probably nothing more than the vanguard, harbingers of the hordes that, somewhere, were even now converging.

  “The closer we get to Kislev the more I think about it,” Elena said.

  “‘Converging on Erengrad’—I didn’t like the sound of that. What could it mean?”

  “I’m not sure, not yet,” Stefan replied. “But if there is to be an attack, I’d wager it was coming soon.”

  “One thing you can be sure of,” Alexei said. “What’s left of them won’t be headed for Erengrad bearing gifts.”

  True enough, Stefan reflected. It all added to the urgency of their journey. “Pick up the pace,” he shouted back to the others. “We’ll be out of the woods soon enough.”

  By the end of the day the paths they were on began to broaden. Wide gaps appeared between the trees as the forest started to thin out.

  “Praise the gods,” Stefan murmured. They would escape the shadows at last. Minutes later they forded a stream, the cold waters splashing up high around the horses’ flanks. “This must be it!” Elena cried. “The eastern edge of the forest. The boundary between the Empire and Kislev!”

  They climbed the high bank on the far side of the stream and stopped. Elena drew her horse up beside Stefan’s. She looked at him, head on one side, a faint smile on her face. There was something intoxicating, exhilarating, about the sense of light and space opening up around them.

  Elena took a deep breath. The smile stayed with her, but began to fade on her lips. “It’s just starting to hit me, what lies ahead for us, beyond the border,” she said. “All this time, travelling, the thought of Kislev’s been like a dream, something not really happening. But now—I don’t know. Perhaps it’s beginning to dawn on me what I’ve taken on.”

  “You’ve fared pretty well so far,” Stefan assured her. “You can take pride in what we’ve achieved. We all can.” He looked up, along the slope of a hill towards the ring of trees perhaps a hundred yards distant. The end of the forest. “Come on,” he said, spurring his horse. “Let’s make that dream real.”

  They broke through, out of the forest, five abreast at a canter. “You’re right!” Elena shouted back to Stefan. “We should be celebrating!”

  Just as they crested the hill, an arrow, or a brace of arrows, skimmed the air a hair’s breadth from Stefan’s face.

  “The celebrations can wait,” a voice called out. The arrows struck home against the trunk of a tree to his right, the shafts quivering in the sunlight.

  By the time Stefan had drawn his sword they were surrounded. To their left, to their right and dead ahead of them, armed men on horseback barred the way. A dozen longbows were trained upon them, drawstrings taut and ready to fly. One of the riders, the same one who had just addressed them, now pulled ahead of the line.

  “Drop your weapons,” the man commanded. “Drop them now.”

  Alexei looked from one end of the line of riders to the other. Thirty men or more, at a guess. “We’re not going to fight our way out of this one,” he said quietly.

  Stefan looked at him, then at the riders sitting in wait ahead. When Alexei Zucharov said the odds were too great it was time to rethink strategy. Instinct told him these were no friends of Chaos. But, right now, they showed little sign of friendship towards them, either.

  He pulled his sword up to saddle height, held it out, and let it drop upon the ground. “Do what he says,” he instructed the others.

  Stefan took the man issuing the orders to be the leader of the group. He sat tall in the saddle, with a weather-tanned face framed with ash blond hair that fell to shoulder length. Like the rest of his men, he was dressed for war, with a breastplate buckled over a shirt of light mail. With his faint, dipped accent he could have been a Kislevite, or from the eastern fringes of the Empire or even Bretonnia. Stefan put his age at less than thirty, but he had the confident manner of a man well used to command. He waited until the weapons had been relinquished, then said:

  “All right. Now ride out here, slowly, where we can get a good look at you.”

  “Won’t you at least tell us who you are?” Stefan asked.

  “We’ll know that of you first,” he replied. “That and more. We’ve been tracking your party for a little while. Thought we’d flush you out before too long.”

  “Doesn’t look like they were with the goatheads,” one of the others commented. It was then Stefan noticed two of the group were carrying spears decorated with the severed heads of beastmen. He rode forward until he and the blond-haired rider were face to face. All the while he was weighing his possible opponent up, looking for anything that might become a weakness. The other man, he knew, would be doing exactly the same thing. Stefan guessed they would be well matched in open combat. But Alexei was certainly right; the five of them would have little chance against these odds. They must try somehow to talk their way clear. He seized upon mention of the beastmen, hoping this might be a good place to start.

  “We came upon a group of them in the forest,” Stefan began. “We killed at least half a dozen.”

  “Good for you,” the man commented, the mildest hint of sarcasm in his lilting voice. Stefan felt a twinge of anger stirring in response, and forced himself to ignore it.

  “We have a common enemy and no just cause for quarrel,” he said, trying his best to sound reasonable. “All we ask is to be given free passage to go on our way.”

  The soldier who had first mentioned beastmen, a beefy-faced man carrying a broadsword, now rode up beside his captain and continued talking as though Stefan was out of earshot. “Maybe they’re mutants?” he offered, by way of a suggestion.

  “Maybe,” the blond man concurred. Stefan had the infuriating impression that he was enjoying every moment of this encounter. “Do you think they look like mutants?” he asked his sergeant.

  The beefy-faced man hesitated for a moment, running an eye over Stefan and his companions. “Not really,” he concluded.

  “Neither do I,” his captain agreed. “But then, that’s no proof of anything. Chaos is capable of many deceptions.”

  “We have proof,” Elena broke in. “If you’re truly stupid enough to think we side with Chaos, then we can prove—”

  “We can prove ourselves in any way you choose to name,” Stefan said, hurriedly, cutting Elena off. “We mean you no ill. All we ask is that you allow us free passage.”

  “Into Kislev?” the captain raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so. Anyway,” he added, “why should your journey bring you through the forest? No ordinary travelers would come that way.”

  “We have travelled from Middenheim,” Stefan said. “The trading road east from the city has been sealed, and the mountain passes are thick with bandit gangs. We were forced to cross the forest.” Alexei and Bruno were at his side now. Stefan felt the tension rising. If they weren’t careful, this could end badly.

  “We’ll have to tell them our true business,” Elena whispered to him. The blond captain regarded them quizzically, then conferred quietly with his lieutenants.

  “The border between the Empire and Kislev was closed for good reason,” he said finally. “You may go free, but you’ll have to head back the way that you’ve come.”

  Elena, by his side, let out a gasp of disbelief. Bruno now pushed forward to join the two of them. His face bore an expression of steely determination that Stefan had not seen in a long time.

  “You’ll have to kill us first!” he told the captain. A dozen or so archers refocused their aim.

  “So be it, if neces
sary,” the captain replied, coolly. “I’m offering you free passage. Your choice whether you accept.”

  “Listen,” Elena said, “You must let us ride on. We have to reach Erengrad.”

  The captain looked at Elena as though she were mad. “Erengrad?” he repeated. “Haven’t you heard? There’s a war storm brewing, and Erengrad is at its heart. Even if I were to let you pass, there’s not a chance of you reaching the city on your own.”

  “Then let us ride with you and your men,” Stefan said. “If you are truly the enemies of Chaos, then we are allies, and you will have need of us.”

  “And what exactly do you have that we would have such need of?”

  “Give me my sword back,” Stefan said, evenly, “and I’ll show you.” For a moment the two men faced each other, each holding the other’s unblinking gaze. The captain nodded, almost imperceptibly. “I imagine that you would,” he said, quietly. “But the fact remains, I have my orders—to seal the border, put any beastmen or other scum that emerged from the forest to the sword, and turn all travelers back.”

  “Maybe this will convince you, then.” All eyes turned towards Elena. She had removed the chain from around her neck and was holding the segment of the Star aloft. Sunlight flashed off the silver metal. Most of the soldiers simply looked bemused, but Stefan could see from the shocked expression on the face of their leader that he understood all too well its significance. Immediately, he began to engage his lieutenants in conference. Every so often he looked round towards Elena and the Star. Finally he turned back to her and said:

  “Where are the other pieces?”

  Stefan and Elena exchanged glances. “We have to trust them,” Elena said. “If they are to trust us, then it’s the only way.” Stefan hesitated, then took a deep breath.

  “I have the second part,” he said. “The third is still in Erengrad. If what you say is true, then it is in greater peril than we had imagined.”

  “And your journey is of greater urgency than I had imagined,” the captain conceded. He rode forward and went to each of them in turn, and now shook them by the hand.

  “I am Franz Schiller,” he told them. “The men you see around you owe allegiance to many lands, but they are united here by a single cause.”

  “The Old World is in peril,” Stefan said. Schiller nodded. “If Erengrad should fall, then the shadow of Chaos will surely blight us all,” he said. “You must ride with us, of course. But understand,” he said to Elena, “we don’t know what we may meet once we approach the city. Great forces are converging upon Erengrad; forces for evil as well as for good. Only Sigmar knows who shall prevail.”

  “I understand,” Elena said, “but without the Star intact, all may be lost.”

  “Then let us make haste,” Schiller urged. “There are many hundreds more of us, camped to the south of Erengrad, at Mirov. We rest there tonight, and ride for the city at dawn.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  On the Precipice

  Kuragin and his men, and seemed to look right through them. It was as though hope was no longer even a possibility. The thirty men ploughed on, against the human tide.

  Soon the air was thick with the sounds of carnage and plunder. Now the rage of the fires could be felt, as well as seen. A broiling heat was turning the streets into a furnace. At its epicentre, the merchants’ hall; a tall wooden structure in the heart of the district. Smoke billowed through the windows and gaping holes in the timbers as fire took a grip on the upper storey. Men were running from the hall through the doors at either end, many of them bearing all the stolen wares they could carry. Most looked indistinguishable from the peasants and tradesmen that had been fleeing the flames, but their faces bore expressions of blank-eyed madness.

  Kuragin saw figures dressed in black moving amongst the crowd, directing them with shouted commands and blows from their staves, as though they were herding cattle. Of Rosporov there was no sign, but Kuragin had no doubt that these were his acolytes. He turned to face his men riding three abreast behind him.

  “Spare the townsfolk if you can,” he commanded.

  “Sire, there are looters amongst them,” his sergeant reminded him.

  “They are possessed by some madness,” Lensky said.

  “They no longer know their own minds. The ones in black are our target,” Kuragin yelled. “Destroy them and the mob will be ours.” He drew his sword, and stepped into the inferno.

  The emissary had quit Erengrad much as he had entered it; with the magician’s art and the assassin’s knife. When next he returned, it would be as conqueror. All would bow to him then, Rosporov included. For a short while the count might well have the run of the city. Varik pictured the Kislevite as a scurrying rat, king of his festering sewer. Let him enjoy his triumph while he might. When Erengrad finally fell, there would be but one champion to lay tribute at Kyros’ throne. He, Varik, would see to that.

  Until then the verminous little nobleman was more use to him alive than dead. Even Varik had to concede that Rosporov was carrying out his task with a poisonous efficiency. Erengrad was tearing itself asunder. Like a ripe—rotten—fruit it was hanging, ready to fall. Whether it would fall before he returned to the city gates was another matter. If Rosporov’s rebellion had won control, so much the better. Victory would be swift and easy. If not, then more blood would flow. But what did that matter, set against the great tide of blood soon to break across the plains of western Kislev?

  He looked down from his vantage point upon the hilltop and surveyed the army of Kyros massing below. Already they were too many to number: hundreds, thousands of them massing beneath the black flags that were blooming like dark flowers across the fields, obliterating the blighted land of Kislev. Their numbers were swelling with each hour that passed; every day more ships were arriving on the northern coasts, spilling their murderous cargo upon the shore. Men and beasts, ready for the march on Erengrad, ready for war. The very air rang with the clamour of coming battle.

  The emissary looked down upon these, his creatures, and felt a surge of power run though his body as countless eyes turned upon him, waiting upon his word. These were violent men who lived to feast off terror and destruction. And he knew them, knew them all. They were his to command, and he was one with them. He gazed down at the scarred, leathery hands that had fought so many battles, ended so many lives. How many souls had this human form dispatched to Morr? And how many more would he, Varik, now savour, melded as he was with this new warrior self? Many, many more. He would see to that, too.

  The beastmen had failed him. That did not surprise him much. He had been promised a full company, an alliance of tribes ready to march on Erengrad. None had arrived at the muster point. He imagined the loathsome half-breeds tearing each other apart over some petty squabble, or abandoning their pledge for some other, worthless trophy. Their evil brutality would be missed, but their low, animal minds were notoriously difficult to mould and shape. Ultimately he would only have had to destroy them.

  There were others, too, drawn towards this dark army of conquest. Men and mutants, mercenaries and fortune seekers. The bitter misfits of the Old World seeking riches and revenge, swelling the ranks of the Norscan horde come to reclaim what was theirs by ancient right. The mark of Chaos was strong in the blood of many, but not all. Kislev had more enemies than it knew.

  He stood, drawing himself up to his full height, and the warriors below saluted him. A mass of voices chanted his other name: Nargrun, destroyer of cities. His greatest, most powerful incarnation yet. The army massing below were ready to die for him, and they were ready to kill for him. He would let them kill, but there was one death that belonged to him alone. He touched his fingers against the leather patch stretched across the empty socket of his left eye. Two memories, two private shames met, burning in a single flame of hatred. Soon, he promised, we shall gain our retribution.

  Petr Illyich Kuragin sat amongst the smoking ruins of what had previously been an inn, and wept without shame. His tears wer
e born of exhaustion, relief, and bitter sorrow. White Barrow had been held. The rebels would doubtless come again, but for now had been pushed back. The defenders had won a few hours of respite, maybe a day or so.

  But that respite had only been won at a cost. Around him, scattered upon the ground or buried beneath the cracked and charred timbers of the fallen houses, nearly twenty of his men lay dead or dying. Amongst them was Dimitri, his loyal servant since boyhood, cut down by a rebel arrow in the first assault. Kuragin wept for him, and for all the other sons of Erengrad who had died that day, and for those who were yet to die. For this was a battle that had barely begun. That much he now understood.

  Today he had reaped a harvest of death with his sword, scything the fields of flesh until the blade ran red. He had tried to single out the ringleaders, the black-clad engineers of anarchy whose name, he had learnt, was the Scarandar. He had dispatched several of them to Morr, but the killing had not ended there. His mind ran back again to the moment when he had killed the first of his townsfolk. The man had charged at him along the street, a shard of jagged glass in place of a sword in one hand, screaming like a madman. Kuragin had looked deep into this man’s eyes, and realised with a jolt that he knew him. He was a craftsman, a tailor or milliner. His name had vanished from memory, but Petr remembered his face from another, better time. Remembered, too, a wife and a son. Kuragin had helped their family buy an apprenticeship for the boy at the military academy.

  As the man had rushed forward to kill him. Kuragin had held his hand out and shouted at his attacker to stop. “In the name of Ulric, man!” he had screamed. “Don’t you remember me? I helped your son!”

  The man’s eyes stared ahead, but seemed to look right through him, as though he were staring into another, monstrous world where only madness prevailed.