Warhammer - [The Ambassador Chronicles 01] - The Ambassador

by Graham McNeill (lit)

  Steel rang on iron and men roared in pain. Kaspar saw a Kurgan punched screaming from his saddle on the end of a knight's lance, scarlet blood spraying from around the shaft. Horses fell and men knocked from their mounts were crushed beneath the stamping hooves of the swirling melee.

  Kaspar fired his pistol into the face of a screaming northman, the ball ricocheting within the man's skull and blasting a hole through the side of his helmet. He shoved the smoking weapon through his belt and drew his second pistol as another tattooed warrior charged him, swinging his flail above his head. Kaspar blew out his shoulder with his shot, but the man kept coming, roaring in his feral northern tongue.

  Kaspar rode at him and hammered his sword through the Kurgan's chest, dragging the blade clear before it could be caught in the dead man's armour. He fought for breath, exhausted despite the desperate energy that pounded through his veins.

  But before the knights could press their advantage, the Kurgans wheeled their mounts, expertly disengaging from the fight and galloping away. Kaspar felt a surge of elation as he watched them ride away and shouted in triumph.

  He made to rake back his spurs and give chase, but heard a soaring trumpet blast that he knew was the signal for Imperial cavalry to hold pursuit. Heart pounding in his chest, he dragged on the reins and turned away from the fleeing Kurgans.

  Then saw that this small victory had been part of the Kurgans' plan all along.

  Further south, blocking their escape along the river were over thirty riders - the second group of Kurgan horsemen. While the hounds and the first group of horsemen had kept the Imperial knights occupied, these horsemen had cut off their escape and now advanced towards them. No lightly armoured fighters, these hulking warriors were protected by armour of dark iron plate, with horned helms and wooden, bronze-bossed shields. They carried long broadswords and double-bladed axes and Kaspar knew that these men would be the most deadly of foes.

  The armoured Kurgan warriors slowly walked their horses towards the knights, their manner arrogant and disdainful, though Kaspar knew that thirty warriors of Chaos could afford to be.

  The Knights Panther gathered around Kurt Bremen, tense, but unafraid. The horse of their fallen brother cantered alongside them, but even with his loss, the knights were still twelve strong. And twelve of the best and bravest Knights Panther was still a force to be reckoned with. Their confidence and bravery was a physical thing and Kaspar felt a grim pride that if he were to die in this bleak valley, then he would at least die in the finest company possible.

  'There's only one way we can do this, Kurt.' said Kaspar, hurriedly reloading his pistols.

  'Aye.' nodded Bremen, raising his visor and offering his hand to Kaspar. 'Straight through them with courage and steel.'

  'Courage and steel.' agreed Kaspar, shaking the knight's hand.

  'Ambassador!' said a voice behind Kaspar. He turned to see Kajetan holding his bound hands out towards him.

  'Untie me.' said Kajetan. 'I can help you.'

  'What?' scoffed Bremen. 'You truly are mad if you think we're going to release you, Kajetan.'

  'What do you have to lose?' pleaded Kajetan. 'They kill me just as happily as you. You and I both know you cannot win here. You will kill many men, but you will fail. Is of no matter if I die, but I can help you live. Let me do this last thing for you.'

  Realising that Kajetan was right, Kaspar rode up to Valdhaas and said, 'Let him down.'

  The knight pushed Kajetan off his horse, the swordsman stumbling as he landed on his injured leg. He lifted his hands to Kaspar who held out his sword and allowed Kajetan to cut his bonds on the blade.

  'Kaspar!' said Bremen.

  'He's right, Kurt. They're going to kill us all and I believe he wants to help.'

  'Quickly, my weapons.' said Kajetan. 'The enemy is almost upon us.'

  Kaspar unhooked Kajetan's weapons and tossed them to the swordsman, who slung his swords from his saddle horn and notched an arrow to his bowstring.

  'Damn you, Kaspar, I hope you know what you're doing!' swore Bremen, raising his sword as Kajetan vaulted into the vacant saddle of the fallen knight. There was no time to worry about Kajetan now, and he turned his horse to face the approaching Kurgans.

  Kaspar fervently hoped the same as he turned his own horse to face the enemy. Less than a hundred yards separated the two forces, and with a roar of bestial fury, the Kurgans kicked their mounts to the gallop.

  The Knights Panther, Kaspar and Kajetan answered with their own bellowed challenge and charged towards the armoured Kurgans. Snow churned as the two groups of horsemen hurtled towards one another.

  An arrow flashed through the air and the lead Kurgan horseman toppled from the saddle, a grey fletched shaft protruding from his helmet. Another closely followed it, and another, and another. Each arrow punched a Kurgan from his horse and Kaspar watched, amazed, as Kajetan shot warrior after warrior with swift, methodical precision at the gallop.

  The swordsman accounted for eight warriors before hurling aside his bow and shouting a Kislevite war cry. Without the weight of a heavily armoured warrior on its back, Kajetan was able to coax extra speed from his mount, and pulled ahead of the knights.

  He drew both his swords and struck the Kurgan line in a whirlwind of blades. His weapons were twin blurs of silver steel, swirling and slicing through flesh and armour with every cut. Three warriors fell from their horses in as many strokes and the momentum of their charge was lost as Kurgan warriors fought to defeat this insane swordsman in their midst.

  Axes and broadswords slashed all around Kajetan, but none could strike him. Guiding his horse expertly with his knees, he dodged and parried every attack, his every riposte tearing open a throat or stabbing through a gap in armour to open an artery.

  The Knights Panther struck the milling Kurgans and battle was well and truly joined, though Kaspar knew that they would be lucky to live through it.

  He saw a Kurgan warrior ride up behind Kajetan and shot the northman in the back of the head. The valley echoed to the ring of Empire forged steel on heavy iron breastplates and the screams of wounded men. Heavy axes punched through plate armour and another Knight Panther fell, cleft from collarbone to pelvis.

  The battle degenerated into a confused mass of barging men and horses, blades, blood and screams. Denied the momentum of their charge, the Kurgans had lost the initiative of the fight. The shouts and bellows of battling men filled the valley, and Kaspar could see that the battle hung on a knife-edge. The old instincts of a general returned to him and he saw that the pivotal point of the battle had been reached.

  The Kurgans had been shocked by Kajetan's wild charge and had been unprepared for the fury of the knights' attack, but they would soon recover and use the full weight of their numbers to destroy them.

  It would take only the smallest spark of courage or panic to win or lose this day.

  He chopped his sword through the arm of a bellowing Kurgan warrior, leaning back to kick him from the saddle as he saw a bearded giant with a scarred face cut a knight from horseback with one blow of his huge war-axe. The Kurgan warrior wore crimson stained armour with a breastplate etched with looping spirals, his bare arms beringed with beaten iron trophy rings and Kaspar knew he looked upon one of the mighty champions of Chaos, a ferocious killer said to be favoured by the dark gods.

  Warriors surrounded him, each bearing their champion's mark upon their breastplates. Kaspar fired his last pistol at the giant, but his shot went wide, tearing open the throat of a horseman beside the armoured giant. The brutish champion dragged his horse around, raising his huge war-axe and riding straight at Kaspar.

  Kaspar swayed in the saddle and the axe whistled past his head, striking his shoulder and tearing free his pauldron. He yelled in pain as the axe blade bit into his flesh, the force of the blow almost wrenching him from the saddle. He regained his balance and struck out at the warrior as he passed, his sword clanging from his foe's thick armour.

  Both men circled to f
ace one another again, and Kaspar saw that this was a fight he could not win. The Kurgan saw the same thing and shouted something in his coarse tongue as he charged towards Kaspar.

  Kaspar saw a sudden flash of silver and a fountain of red. The bearded giant fell from his horse, his head spinning through the air. Kajetan rode past, bleeding from a score of cuts, his swords flashing as he killed and killed and killed.

  Kaspar watched in utter disbelief as Kajetan fought with such grace and skill that it defied all reason. He had heard it said that the true genius of a warrior was to find space in which to manoeuvre, to see the opportunity for the killing blow, while simultaneously denying the same to an opponent. He watched as Kajetan flowed like liquid through the battle, axes and swords seeming to float past him as he spun and dodged with preternatural skill. His blades sang out and wherever they struck, a foeman died.

  Kaspar turned his horse, ready to rejoin the fight, though his sword arm burned with fatigue and each breath seared his lungs.

  But the Kurgan horsemen were already scattering. The sudden death of their war leader had broken their courage and they galloped their horses northwards, back towards the tree-line they had first come from.

  Kaspar lowered his sword and let the exhaustion of the battle claim him. He patted Magnus's heaving flanks and ran a hand across his sweat-streaked scalp, groaning as he felt the pain in his shoulder flare where the Kurgan war leader's axe had struck him. His arm felt numb and he flexed his fingers experimentally.

  He forced himself to remain in the saddle and turned as he heard someone call his name. Sasha Kajetan rode up alongside Kaspar, his bloodstained swords still gripped in his fists.

  Kaspar glanced at the weapons and wondered if he was to survive the battle only to die at the hands of the swordsman.

  But Kajetan did not have murder on his mind and spun the swords, offering them to Kaspar hilt first. Kaspar took the blades and only then did he notice the many wounds Kajetan bore, each bleeding steadily and strongly.

  Kurt Bremen rode up to Kaspar, his silver armour dented and torn, its surfaces slathered in blood. He saw the wounded Kajetan lower himself across his horse's neck and shook his head.

  'I have never seen his like,' said the knight.

  'Nor I,' wheezed Kaspar, amazed they still drew breath. To have fought against such numbers and prevailed was staggering. 'He was incredible.'

  Bremen circled his horse, watching as the surviving Kurgan warriors regrouped at the ford.

  'We should go now.' said the knight. 'Most likely that was a scouting party seeking a route southwards for the High Zar's army. There will be more behind them.'

  Kajetan groaned in pain as Bremen rallied his warriors. Kaspar did not know what to say to the swordsman. The man had killed his oldest friend, tortured another and had now saved their lives.

  He remembered the look in Kajetan's eyes as they had fought at the top of the hill and Kaspar smiled, finally understanding the dilemma Stefan had posed before the battle at Owsen's Ford.

  'Ambassador.' said Bremen. 'We need to go now.'

  'Aye.' said Kaspar, helping Kajetan to sit up in his saddle. 'Let's get out of here.'

  Epilogue

  I

  KASPAR KNEW HE had never seen a more welcome sight than the towers and buildings of Kislev, ringed by the high wall and sprawling camps of refugees and soldiers. He remembered his first sight of the walls, nearly four months ago, and the sense of anticipation he had felt.

  The ride south towards Kislev had been exhausting, Kurt Bremen unwilling to tarry any longer in the north than he had to. There was every possibility that more Kurgan riders would come after them, but they had seen no signs of pursuit and their travels had been without incident. Despite the incredible feat of defeating so many foes, the knights were subdued, partly due to the emptiness of the steppe, and partly due to the loss of three of their brethren to the Kurgans. The standard of the Knights Panther had been kept lowered and Kaspar knew it pained Kurt Bremen to have to leave their bodies behind, but there had simply been no time to recover them.

  Their riderless horses were tethered to the saddles of the surviving knights and followed sadly behind the group, as though they knew that their masters were never to ride them into battle again. Kajetan had said nothing the entire journey, save to thank the knight who had stitched his wounds. Since the battle at the ford, he had retreated into a catatonic state, ignoring every question and keeping his head bowed whenever he was addressed. Though he had made no attempt to escape, Bremen was taking no chances and had ordered his wrists bound and that Valdhaas lead his horse.

  Understanding a measure of Kajetan's madness, Kaspar did not believe such precautions were necessary, but was in no mind to argue with the knight.

  'I never thought I would be glad to see this place again.' said Bremen, riding alongside Kaspar.

  Kaspar nodded, too weary to reply. His injured shoulder still hurt like hell, but he smiled to himself, looking forward to seeing Sofia, Anastasia and Pavel again. He twisted in the saddle, seeing Kajetan looking up at the city with an expression of fear and loathing. He supposed that was understandable, given that the Chekist would in all likelihood want to hang him as soon as he was within the walls.

  That was something Kaspar was determined to prevent. There were powers at work behind Kajetan, and Kaspar was unwilling to let the swordsman go to the gallows without first trying to discover who they were. He could already anticipate the confrontation with Pashenko.

  Kaspar sighed. He had hoped that with the capture of the Butcherman, the coming days would be somewhat less chaotic than he had seen so far.

  But he had a feeling that that was not going to be the case.

  II

  SNOW SWIRLED ALONG the night-shrouded length of the valley as the nine riders climbed their way to the top of its rocky sides. Swathed in thick furs, they resembled wild beasts more than humans.

  Nothing lived here; nothing could, the rocky ground and howling winds ensured that nothing could survive and kept this part of Kislev uninhabited.

  The riders forced their weary mounts to the top of the valley, a deep gouge in the earth that looked for all the world as though the land had split apart and pulled itself a long, snaking wound. Fighting against the worsening weather, the riders pushed onwards and upwards, though it seemed as though the very elements fought to prevent their progress.

  Through the blizzard, a vast upthrust crag emerged from the night. A tall menhir, some forty or fifty feet high and formed of a hard, smooth stone, its top was lost in the snow and darkness. Wedged deep in the earth and spearing into the moonlit sky, the huge stone was etched with angular carvings that might once have been crude pictograms before the wind had rendered them illegible.

  The riders halted at the base of the huge standing stone, dismounting and pacing around its bulk as though inspecting it. One of the riders, a broad shouldered giant with a horned helm and visor carved in the form of a snarling wolf stepped forward and placed his gauntleted palm against the stone.

  'Be careful, my lord,' said a rider hung with bones and charms. 'The stones sing with power.'

  'Good,' said the helmeted warrior, turning to face his shaman. 'Bring forth the offering to Tchar.'

  High Zar Aelfric Cyenwulf placed his other palm against the stone and smiled. The Dolgans called this place Urszebya - Ursun's Teeth - believing them to be fragments of the bear god's fangs left behind after he took a bite from the world. He smiled at the ridiculousness of such a notion.

  Though he knew it was reckless of him to come this far south without his army, he had needed to see the stones for himself, and as he removed a mailed gauntlet and placed his callused hand against the cold stone, he knew that the dangerous journey had not been made in vain. Though no sorcerer, he could feel the power that suffused the stone and gave praise to Tchar that he had been led to this place.

  'My lord,' said his shaman, pushing a bound man to his knees before the High Zar.

  Aelf
ric Cyenwulf stepped away from the stone and opened his furs, letting the cloak fall to the ground. Beneath his furs he wore iridescent plates of heavy steel armour that rippled and threw back the moonlight as though a sheen of oil slithered across its surfaces. Edged with fluted spirals of gold and silver, the breastplate was moulded to resemble powerful pectoral and abdominal muscles. The flesh of his arms was all but obscured by the many beaten iron trophy rings and painted tattoos that writhed with the bulging of his corded muscles. A huge pallasz, its blade fully six feet in length, was sheathed over his shoulder, its pommel worked in the shape of a snarling daemon.

  He removed his helmet and handed it to one of his warriors. A wild mane of silver hair, with a streak of black at either temple spilled around his shoulders, framing a face ritually scarred - six cuts on the left cheek, four on the right - that radiated a ruthless intelligence.

  The High Zar loomed above his warriors, a powerful champion in the service of the mighty gods of the north, the true gods of man, Masters of the End Times and soon-to-be inheritors of this world.

  Before him, the captive shivered and wept, now naked but for a soiled loincloth.

  The High Zar smiled, exposing teeth filed down to sharpened points and bent down to lift the captive by the neck in one meaty hand.

  The man struggled in the High Zar's grip, but there could be no escape. The towering champion of Chaos pulled the captive close and bit out his throat with a roar of praise to Tchar, holding the shuddering corpse towards the stone and allowing the jetting blood to spatter the giant menhir.

  His shaman leaned forward, examining the patterns formed by the blood as it flowed down the stone, tracing his own designs in the sticky liquid as it reached the faded pictograms. The High Zar tossed aside the dead body, spitting a mouthful of flesh at the base of the stone and said, 'Well? What do the omens say?'

  The shaman turned and said, 'I can feel the pulse of the world beneath us.'