Ursuns Teeth

by Warhammer

  Pavel nodded, and Kaspar could see the remorse etched across his features. He did not enjoy saying these things, but knew he had no choice. If Pavel were to remain here, then he would need to learn that he could not continue to behave in such a manner.

  He turned and left the room without another word, leaving Pavel to his misery.

  The days draggedon with no end in sight to the winter, though some who claimed a sense for such things, spoke of a coming thaw with the break of the new year. The days passed slowly and painfully, with Kaspar enduring agonising days of Sofia massaging his injured knee and exercise to reduce the swelling. He was past the age when such injuries could be shrugged off so easily and Sofia predicted that his knee would be weak for the remainder of his days.

  Pavel also recovered his strength slowly, though he kept a remarkably low profile around the embassy. Sofia ensured that he kept off the kvas and as the weeks passed, the big Kislevite's strength gradually returned.

  The year turned from 2521 to 2522 with little fanfare, the city too beaten down to celebrate Verena's sacred day. Though plague continued to kill scores every day, it appeared that the outbreak had at last been contained. Scant comfort to those quarantined within the affected areas, but a source of great relief to everyone else.

  A number of Kislevite boyarin gave rousing speeches to the soldiers on the first day of Nachexen, promising them a year of battle and victories. Kaspar himself was called upon to make a number of speeches to the Empire regiments camped beyond the walls of the city when riders from Talabheim delivered missives that informed him that the armies of Talabecland and Stirland were on the march to Kislev.

  Perhaps it was the hope of reinforcements, or perhaps it was the lengthening days and the breath of the new year, but a tangible sense of optimism began to permeate the Kislevite capital.

  V

  He had nearly forty thousand warriors, and more were arriving every day. High Zar Aelfric Cyenwulf of the Iron Wolves watched with satisfaction as yet more riders rode in from the cold steppe of the north to join his army, their ragged skull totems raised as high as their ululating war cries. Victory bred victory and the tribes of the north - the Kul, the Hung and the Vargs, as well as Kyazak raiders - were flocking to his banner, eager to share in his future successes. Individual warbands of fearsome champions came too, and his army grew.

  The warriors he had assembled to fight for him were the fiercest he could have wished for. No other army of the north had won so many battles or conquered so many tribes. No other army had provoked such fear and loathing in its victims, or slaughtered so many of its vanquished.

  Hundreds of horsemen and thousands of warriors on foot gathered on the snow-covered landscape below him, too many to be seen at once. Whole wings of his army were scattered, a days ride or more from here, spread out across the steppe until the order was given to march south. Men and monsters fought for the High Zar, malformed trolls from the high mountains, bestial monstrosities gifted by the touch of the Dark Gods and mindless things so twisted and mutated that they defied any easy description.

  It was an army raised not for conquest, but destruction.

  The people of the southern lands knew a terror of him and his armies, and the High Zar knew that such tales would do more to defeat his foes than axe or sword.

  The High Zar was a giant of a warrior, broad shouldered and powerful, carrying his horned, wolf-faced helm in the crook of his arm as he stood atop the craggy foothills of the mountains and allowed his army to see him. His cloak billowed behind him in the wind, the iridescent plates of his heavy armour gleaming in the late winter sun.

  He raised his tattooed arms, the many trophy rings wrapping his muscles glinting as they caught the light. He held his mighty pallasz above his head, hefting the fearsomely heavy weapon as though it weighed nothing at all. He towered above the eight handpicked warriors who accompanied him, a mighty champion of Chaos, favoured son of Tchar and soon to be destroyer of nations.

  Silver hair, with a streak of pure black at either temple, rippled in the wind and framed a scarred face that had known only victory. He smiled, exposing teeth that had been filed to sharp points.

  The spring thaw was upon the land and his shaman, Kar Odacen, had promised him that the snows were already receding. Come the morning, they would march south, following the line of the World's Edge Mountains and skirting Praag before turning westwards towards the great scar on the landscape known as Urszebya.

  Ursun's Teeth.

  'Many warriors,' said a voice that sounded like glaciers colliding, and the smile fell from the High Zar's face.

  He felt his skin crawl and the hairs on his arms crackle with the arrival of the Old One as it climbed the rocks behind him. The ground shook with its weight and sapphire sparks began dancing around the gold-fluted edges of Cyenwulf's armour at its presence. He licked his suddenly dry lips before replying.

  'Aye, many warriors. We take war to the south on the morrow.'

  Wisps of dark, flickering smoke curled around his body as the beast that had awoken from beneath the mountains stepped forwards, its heavy tread shaking the mountain. The High Zar dared not look too closely at it; he had seen the fate of those who had done so, and had no wish to end his days a burned out husk of dead flesh.

  'I do not remember this world,' it said. 'I remember the destruction of the Great Gateway and the world in turmoil, but all this... all this was young then. I have slept for so long that I do not remember it any more.'

  'It is ours for the taking,' promised Cyenwulf.

  'Yes...' rumbled the creature, the smoke that concealed its dark majesty pulsing with cerulean lightning, and the High Zar breathed a sigh of relief as it turned and climbed back down the mountainside.

  VI

  When Kaspar had been told that Vassily Chekatilo was downstairs, he had assumed that the Kislevite had come with further news of the unseen enemy who had thus far eluded them. But now, sitting in his study with Chekatilo lounging beside the fire, he wished he had never allowed the smug bastard within the walls of the embassy. Many days had passed since the events at the Lubjanko and Kaspar had put off speaking to Chekatilo for as long as he could.

  'You cannot possibly expect me to do this,' said Kaspar, his lips pursed in a thin line.

  Chekatilo simply nodded. 'I do indeed, ambassador.'

  'I won't.'

  'I think you will, it is in your interests to do so,' said Chekatilo ominously. 'Remember, you were only too willing to put yourself in my debt when your precious Sofia was missing, when Sasha Kajetan was torturing her in his death attic. You begged me to help.'

  'But we got Sofia back without your help,' pointed out Kaspar.

  'Aye, that you did, but without my help you not have caught Kajetan, eh?'

  'No,' admitted Kaspar, 'but I never asked you to do that. It was Pavel who came to you. I owe you nothing.'

  Chekatilo laughed. 'You think that matter, Empire man? If a man owes me money and he dies, do I not demand the money from his woman? And if she dies, do I not then demand it from his son? It the same thing, the debt passes. You owe me and I remember you giving me your word on this. Said it was iron, once given, never broken.'

  Kaspar got up from behind his desk and turned his back on Chekatilo, staring through the window over the rooftops of Kislev. The snows were retreating and the first rains had turned the streets into slushy quagmires, dampening the optimism the new year had brought to the city.

  Armies were on the march, he knew. Forward riders from the vanguard of the army of Talabecland had already arrived, bringing news of the arrival of nearly seven thousand fighting men under General Clemenz Spitzaner, a man Kaspar knew well and did not particularly relish meeting once more. He wondered briefly if the years had dimmed the man's bitterness, but supposed he would find out soon enough.

  'Ambassador?' said Chekatilo, startling him from his reverie.

  'What you are asking me to do violates every duty and oath I took when I accepted this po
sting to your miserable country,' said Kaspar, facing Chekatilo once more.

  'So? Such things not a problem for your predecessor.'

  'I don't suppose they were, but Teugenheim was a coward and I will not be blackmailed in the way he was.'

  'I am not blackmailing you, Empire man,' said Chekatilo. 'I only ask you to honour your debt to me. I am leaving Kislev for Marienburg and need to travel very far. Through your land - and land at war is a dangerous, suspicious place. As Empire ambassador, you can sign documents that will allow me to pass... what is the phrase? Ah, yha, "without let or hindrance" through Empire. Teugenheim also tell me that as ambassador you entitled to soldiers from Empire regiments to protect you on journeys.'

  'I know all this,' snapped Kaspar.

  'I know,' smiled Chekatilo. 'You will authorise men from your soldiers to see me safely to Marienburg. After all, they sit outside of walls of Kislev and do nothing anyway, it not like they do anything useful.'

  'But they will be called upon soon,' said Kaspar. 'It may have escaped your selfish notice, but war is coming to your land and these men will soon risk their lives defending it.'

  'Pah, is of no matter, I not ask them to come here. I think many of them would be glad of chance to get out of Kislev before war.'

  'You may have no sense of honour, running from your country like a cowardly rat, Chekatilo, but I do and I will be damned if I will sign any travel documents or assign you any of my nation's soldiers to do so.'

  'You refusing your debt to me?' said Chekatilo darkly.

  'You're damn right I am.'

  'I not ask politely again, Empire man. You will give me what I ask for.'

  'Over my dead body,' growled Kaspar.

  'If not yours, then someone else's perhaps.' promised Chekatilo, rising from the chair and taking his leave.

  VII

  Pavel trudged through the slush of the Goromadny Prospekt, keeping his head bowed against the drizzling rain that greyed the sky and washed the colour from the world. He knew he should not be out in this kind of weather - Sofia had warned him as much - but he could not stay in the embassy. Not with the constant reminders of his shame at having let the ambassador down all around him in the accusing stares of his knights and guards.

  He wished that he had a bottle of kvas, but was also glad that he did not. The past weeks had been a constant battle between his craving for the powerful spirit and a desire to not let his oldest friend down again. If he was honest, he knew he was probably too weak to win that battle, but hoped to eke out what little remained of their friendship before he inevitably failed once more.

  'You are a stupid old fool,' he said to himself.

  'You'll get no argument from me on that score,' said a cold voice from the street corner ahead of him. His heart sank as he recognised the voice and looked up into the flinty eyes of Chekatilo's killer, Rejak.

  Rejak lounged on the corner of a redbrick building, his left arm held in a sling that was bound tightly to his body. Pavel could also see a thickness at the man's waist where the cut across his stomach had been heavily bandaged.

  'Rejak,' said Pavel guardedly. 'I heard you were dead. What do you want?'

  'No greeting for an old friend? And no, I'm not dead, sorry to disappoint you.'

  'We were never friends, Rejak, even then. You are a cold blooded killer.'

  Rejak laughed. 'And you are not? I seem to remember it was you who cracked open Andrej Vilkova's skull. I only held him down for you.'

  Pavel closed his eyes, feeling the familiar guilt as he thought back to that dark night of murder. He took a deep breath to clear his head and said, 'I see someone taught you a lesson in swordplay. Almost emptied your belly to the floor, I heard.'

  Rejak's eyes flared. 'It won't happen a second time.' he snarled. 'When I see that tricksy bastard again, I'll take his damned head off.'

  Pavel laughed, tapping Rejak's injured arm. 'Best hope not to meet him too soon, eh?'

  'I could still best you right now.' snapped Rejak.

  'I don't doubt it, but that's not what you're here for is it?'

  Rejak smiled, regaining his composure, and said, 'No, you're right, it's not.'

  'Then what is it? Hurry up and tell me so I can get out of this bloody rain.'

  'Chekatilo wants to see you.'

  'Why?'

  'He needs you to do something for him.'

  'What?'

  'Ask him yourself. I'm taking you to him.'

  'What if I don't want to see him?' said Pavel, though he knew it was pointless.

  'That doesn't matter. He wants to see you and I won't ask you again.' grinned Rejak, lifting aside his cloak with his good arm to show the hilt of his sword.

  Pavel sighed in resignation, knowing that to follow Rejak was to damn himself completely, but knowing he was too pathetic to refuse and suffer the consequences.

  Rejak smiled, seeing the defeat in Pavel's eyes, and turned to walk up the street.

  Pavel followed him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I

  With its golden, eagle-topped banner poles shining in the sun, brightly patterned standards flapping in the stiff breeze and gaudily caparisoned knights, the army of Talabecland was a vibrant sight as nearly seven thousand men marched in good order along the rutted roadway towards Kislev. Kaspar's heart swelled with admiration to watch such an overt display of martial might, proud to see such fine men of his nation coming to the aid of their ally.

  He and Kurt Bremen sat atop their steeds to one side of the main road at the foot of the Gora Geroyev, wrapped in thick fur cloaks. Officially, he was here in his capacity as Imperial ambassador to greet the army's general and welcome him to Kislev, but Kaspar knew Clemenz Spitzaner from the days he had carried his own general's baton and was in no hurry to renew that acquaintance.

  No, Kaspar had come for the spectacle.

  Densely packed blocks of pikemen in long tabards of red and gold marched behind halberdiers in padded, cross-coloured surcoats who carried their long-hafted weapons proudly, the blades gleaming like a forest of mirrors. Kaspar watched the different regiments as they passed in a riot of colours, golds, reds, whites and blues; swordsmen in feather-peaked sallets bearing iron-rimmed shields on their back: arquebusiers wrapped in long tunics and bristling with silver cartridge cases; archers in cockaded tricorne hats with bows wrapped in oilcloth; warriors in gleaming hauberks and scarlet puff-breeches who carried heavy greatswords over their shoulders.

  Regiment after regiment of the state infantry of Talabecland marched to the beat of the drummer boys, who played rousing martial tunes accompanied by the horns of the following regiments.

  Cavalry riding fine, grain-fed Empire steeds rode alongside the infantry, their mounts of obvious quality and a sure sign of wealth. The young riders wore light, flexible breastplates of toughened leather and plumed helmets, their long barrelled carbines holstered from looped thongs fastened to the saddle horn. Fast, deadly and brave to the point of recklessness, many an enemy had cause to regret underestimating these lightly armoured cavalrymen.

  But the glory of the army was the knights in gleaming plate armour riding monstrous horses, fully seventeen hands or more. Great, northern-bred warhorses, these snorting, stamping beasts carried the Knights of the White Wolf: fearsome, bearded warriors, who matched their mounts' wild appearance.

  Wrapped in shaggy wolf pelts and disdaining to carry a shield, they carried heavy cavalry hammers and shared raucous jokes with one another as they rode.

  'That is no way for a Templar to behave,' said Kurt Bremen, shaking his head.

  Kaspar chuckled, well aware of the rivalry that existed between the Templars of Ulric and Sigmar. He smiled, finally catching sight of the black and gold banner tops of the Nuln artillery train. Straining oxen and shouting teamsters with whips guided the massive cannons and bombards along the road, sweating teams of muscled men pushing the monstrously heavy bronze guns when their carriage wheels became stuck in the mud. Wagon after wagon fo
llowed the artillery, laden with shot, shell, black powder, handspikes and rammers.

  'Ah, it does the heart proud to see the guns here, Kurt. The Imperial Gunnery school still produces the best guns in the world, no matter what the dwarfs might say.'

  'You can keep your guns, Kaspar,' said Bremen with a smile. 'Give me an Averland steed and a sturdy lance any day.'

  'Warfare is moving on, Kurt,' said Kaspar. 'The things the School of Engineers are producing now are frightening in their potential. Pistols that do not need to be loaded again until a revolving mechanism is expended, black powder rockets that can reach further than the heaviest cannon, though they can't hit anything worth a damn, and armoured machines that can carry a cannon across the battlefield.'

  'Aye, soon a soldier himself will be incidental.'

  'I fear you might be right, Kurt,' said Kaspar sadly. 'Sigmar save us from such times. I fear for what wars we might make when we no longer have to fight the foe face-to-face. How much easier will it be to kill when we can do it from leagues away and don't have to feel the enemy's blood on our hands or look into his eyes as he dies?'

  'All too easy I suspect,' replied Bremen.

  Such melancholy thoughts soured Kaspar's enjoyment of watching the spectacle of his countrymen's arrival in Kislev and he felt his mood worsen as he saw the unmistakable banner of its general approaching: a scarlet griffon rampant on a golden background, surrounded by a laurel wreath and decorated with numerous scrolls and trailing prayer pennants.

  'Damn, here comes the man himself,' sighed Kaspar.

  'You know the general?' asked Bremen.