by C. L. Werner
The Talabec was a truly massive river, some thousand feet wide on the approach to Talabheim, and it travelled the breadth of the Empire, hundreds of miles long. It roared down from the World's Edge Mountains as dozens of smaller rivers and creeks that merged into the Upper Talabec and the Lower Talabec in Ostermark, before these two rivers merged, west of Bechafen. Leaving Ostermark and entering Talabecland, it was met by the icy waters of the River Urskoy, which flowed all the way from north of the grand city of Kislev, passing south of the battlefields where the Emperor Magnus and the Reiklandguard defeated the armies of Chaos, far in the north. These two mighty rivers converged to create the Talabec, one of the biggest rivers in the Old World. It passed through the heart of the Empire, cutting through the great forests, and leading to the city of Talabheim before continuing on to grand Altdorf, the home of the newly formed Colleges of Magic. Here it merged with the River Stir to become the Reik, and continued on to the ocean at Marienburg, feeding into the marshes that surrounded the port city.
The Talabec was one of the major routes of trade through the Empire, carrying food, livestock and precious cargo from the sea all the way to Kislev. The river was large enough for whole fleets to sail up it, enabling entire armies to travel the breadth of the Empire in a fraction of the time it would take to march. Stefan was thankful for this, for his approach towards Talabheim had been swift.
The reiksmarshal moved to stand next to him. He had recovered well, and from outward appearances, one would never know that he had been ill, but von Kessel knew that much of this was purely for show, and that he tired easily. Still, the strong-willed older man would never allow such weaknesses to show in front of his soldiers. Stefan tensed as the man stood beside him in silence. When the man had first emerged from his sickness, he had been outraged by the actions of the captain, and had exploded with anger. The priestess of Shallya had glared at Stefan balefully for upsetting her patient, and the captain had been almost more taken aback by the anger in the priestess than he was by the fury of the reiksmarshal. He had always believed that the priestesses of Shallya were calm and peaceful types, dutiful and soft-natured, but this woman was formidable in her displeasure.
The reiksmarshal had given Stefan an angry dressing down, speaking of his duty to the Empire and the Emperor. For almost an hour, the reiksmarshal had berated him for his actions, and all the while Stefan was silent, accepting it all stoically. He knew that he spoke the truth, and he swore to himself not to allow his own emotions or prejudices to cloud his vision in the future. His duty to the Empire was paramount, and he vowed to do all that his Emperor demanded of him with vigour and faith.
The pair stood together for a moment longer. Uncomfortable with the silence, the reiksmarshal cleared his throat. 'That's a fearsome creature you have below deck. It damn near took a man's arm off this morning.'
The animal's grandsire had been the war-mount of Stefan's grandfather. The captain was apprehensive of the beast, but it had been brought from the menagerie with some difficulty, and so he felt that it would be improper to send it back. 'Griffons are not renowned for their gentle natures.' he replied. The reiksmarshal nodded his head, and was silent for some moments.
'I spoke the truth when last we spoke, von Kessel.' he said, eventually. 'You did not think with the Empire in mind, you thought only of your own anger and vengeance.'
'I know. I see that now, reiksmarshal.' said Stefan, his head low. The knight nodded his head.
'I know you do. You needed to hear those words, von Kessel, and you need to remember them, always, especially with the difficult role that you will need to fill in the future.'
'Sir?' said Stefan, looking at the knight, confusion on his face.
'Don't be so thick-headed, man.' chuckled the reiksmarshal. 'Gruber has no living heir, and even if he did, there is no way that he would succeed to the position of elector. You have cleared the name of your family - the Emperor himself will decree your name exonerated. You are the next in line, Stefan. You are to be the elector.'
'I... I don't want to be elector.'
'What the bloody hell does that have to do with it, eh? Any man thatdid want to be an elector is certainly the wrong man for the role. You think our Emperor Magnuswished to be Emperor?'
'I don't know. I've never thought of it.'
'Well, he didn't. He became Emperor because he saw that it was necessary, for the future of the Empire. Just as for the future of Ostermark,you must become its elector count.'
'Reiksmarshal.' said Stefan, feeling his stomach knot painfully. 'I have no understanding of politics. Nor any wish to understand them. I am a soldier, nothing more.'
'We don't need more politicians in the Empire, Stefan, we need strong leaders, and you, despite your failings, are a strong leader. Don't get me wrong, you are never going to be the type of man to inspire the populace with rousing speeches. Sigmar forbid, you would doubtlessly say something daft and cause a riot, but that does not matter. You are a soldier, a man used to action. You assess situations and respond as best as you see fit. You don't always get it right, you damn well haven't always made the best decisions in the past, but the past is the past, and the important thing is that those men that follow you trust you, and respect you. You will do just fine.'
Stefan breathed deeply, letting this information soak in. He felt sick. He didn't want this sort of responsibility.
'Here,' said the reiksmarshal. He held out a sword wrapped in a flag bearing the purple and yellow of Ostermark. 'You are not elector yet, but it is within my power to give this to you to bear in the battles ahead, Sigmar knows that you will need it.'
Accepting the proffered gift with some trepidation, Stefan held it for a moment, unwilling to open it. It was heavy, a good solid weight in his hands, and he could feel the power emanating from it. This was an ancient and powerful weapon, and he knew then what it was. His mouth dropped open.
Reverently, he unwrapped the precious weapon. A sheathed sword lay within, its hilt heavy and functional, decorative and rich in a style that was far from ostentatious, yet obviously this was a priceless weapon. The scabbard was simple black leather, with silver edging, and Stefan closed his hand around the hilt tentatively. Grasping the scabbard, he drew the Runefang, marvelling at its perfect balance.
Stefan gaped at the weapon in awe. The Runefang had been the mark of office of the counts of Ostermark since its forging by the dwarfs in the time of Sigmar, one of the twelve Runefangs forged to symbolise the alliance between the two races. It had been wielded in countless battles by generations of elector counts of Ostermark, and Stefan's own grandfather had used it to cut down the greenskins and beastmen that plagued the forests of Ostermark before his treacherous execution. Gruber had never carried the blade to battle, for he was no warrior, and it had languished in the armouries, collecting dust.
The blade of the Runefang was gleaming silver and dwarf runes ran up its length. The metal was harder than any steel that man could forge, and its blade remained as sharp as it was on the day that it was made, never needing to have been sharpened in all the centuries since that time. 'It is made of gromril,' said the reiksmarshal, 'a metal treasured by the dwarfs, one that only they know how to mine and work.'
Stefan swung the blade around him, and it hummed smoothly through the air. It felt perfect in his grasp. The hilt was long enough so that he could hold it with both hands, and it was just the right weight for him to be able to wield it with one hand comfortably. It was a wondrous sword, and he knew that there was power held within it. The old tales claimed that it could cleave through metal and stone. Holding it, Stefan, who had always discounted those stories as exaggerated wives' tales, was not so sure any more.
'This is a grand gift indeed,' said Stefan in awe.
'No gift,' said the reiksmarshal, 'it is your birthright.'
Talabheim was a massive city, rivalling the greatest cities of the Empire. Known by many as the Eye of the Forest, it was situated in the heart of the Empire. It was built
within a gigantic crater, miles across. No one truly knew what caused this crater, but many believed that a great burning twin-tailed comet smashed into the ground, creating the gigantic crater walls that reared up into the sky like a circular range of mountains. Atop these crater walls were built the walls of Talabheim itself; powerful and stout, they dominated the skyline. Combined, the natural defences and the stout walls at their top formed an almost impenetrable defence against any who would dare to attack.
The city itself was situated in the middle of the crater, and was surrounded by miles of farmland. Thus, the outer walls of the city were miles and miles long, and thousands of men were needed to man them. Watch towers and fortresses dotted the walls, and when properly manned, they allowed a view of the approach to Talabheim from every possible angle.
Just outside the crater walls ran the Talabec, forming a deep natural harbour. Around this harbour, outside the walls proper, had grown the small settlement of Talagaad. Housing some thousand or so permanent residents, it was a slum of a place that catered for the countless traders and sailors that passed through the city every day. Taverns lined the streets surrounding the docklands, filled with brawling, drunken sailors, thieves, smugglers and whores.
Albrecht smiled broadly as the ships drew near the port. 'Ah, now this is my kind of place.' he said.
'We are passing straight through, Albrecht. We will not be spending one moment longer in Talagaad than is absolutely necessary.' said Stefan sternly.
The sergeant gave a long sigh. 'Not even time for a single drink, and a hand of cards, huh. Anyone would think there was a war coming.' He winked at the captain.
'You are in good spirits this morning, sergeant.'
'Aye, I am, captain.' said Albrecht.
'Thank you for not calling me "elector", it grates on my nerves.'
'I'm in good spirits today,captain, because we are just about to get off this wretched ship. I hate being on the water, always have. It makes me ill.'
'Rock-hard Sergeant Albrecht scared of water, eh? I wouldn't have guessed it.'
'No, and I'll thank you not to repeat it, and I ain't scared of water, it just makes me feel queasy like.'
'Of course.'
'I'm a soldier, captain. I take my little pleasures where I can. A sunset, or the embrace of a beautiful woman - these are things to be happy about. Getting off a damn ship - it's that same thing for me - I'll take my small pleasures where I can get 'em.'
Stefan raised his eyebrow. 'The embrace of a beautiful woman and getting off a ship the same thing, huh? I think you must be doing one of them wrong, old man.'
'Old man? Don't you think that just because you have that fancy sword strapped at your side that I wouldn't knock some sense into your head if you needed it,captain.'
Stefan laughed, and slapped his sergeant on the shoulder. 'I wouldn't have it any other way, old man.'
CHAPTER THIRTY
Ulkjar Headtaker smashed both of his swords into the neck of the Norscan, one from either side. The blades met in the middle, and the Norscan's head toppled to the ground. Wiping his blades on the cloak of his defeated foe, the tall man sheathed his swords and bent to pick up the head. Holding it up by its hair, he turned around, showing it to all those who watched.
'I am Ulkjar Moerk of the Skaelings!' he roared, his ice blue eyes flashing dangerously from face to face.'I am the Headtaker! I am your chieftain! This is the fate of all those who dare to challenge me!'
The tall Norscan stalked away, pushing his way through the dispersing crowd of tribesmen. Moving to a large stone, he sat down, placing the bloody head of the latest challenger next to him. He opened up the small deer-hide pouch at his side and drew out a thin needle made from carved whale-bone and a thin sinew string. Licking the sinew between his lips, he threaded it through the eye of the needle, and began to stitch up the wound at his side. He sucked in his breath as he pushed the needle through his flesh and pulled the sinew through. He repeated the movement over and over, until the wound was sewn shut. Biting the tendon off, he tied it neatly, and wiped the blood away with a soft fur cloth.
Ever since Hroth had bested him, fairly he had to admit, he had been forced to face challengers from within his own tribe. Before he had arrived on the beach that day, his men had believed that he was invincible.He had believed he was invincible, but no longer. He had lost his authority amongst the Skaelings, and they saw him as just a man, like them, a man who could be bested.
I am chosen, he reminded himself. How could they possibly think that they could best him? Nevertheless, challenge him they did.
Over the last weeks Ulkjar had fought off no less than five Skaelings who dared to challenge his position as their chieftain. He wondered how many more he would have to kill, and when it would end. With his death, he thought grimly. It wouldn't happen any time soon, he knew. No, he was too powerful for any of them, and that was no idle boast, but he was not young any longer. In a few years, he would be the age his father had been when he had killed him.
Ulkjar had two children back in Norsca. Within a year or two young Bjorn would be ready to join him on his raids. Would he be slain by his own son a few years after that, he wondered? He hoped so - that was the way to die - seeing your own son grow strong and proud. He would be damned if anyone else was going to do it. Still, the Warlord Hroth, a towering daemon prince, had claimed his skull for his own, and Ulkjar felt certain that he would eventually lose his life to that one. He hoped it would not be so, for if he were slain, then some other Skaeling would take his place, and his family in Norsca would no doubt be slaughtered by the new chieftain. Still, such was the way of the Skaelings.
Ulkjar rubbed the skin at his side. Nodding, he began to pull the sinew stitching back out. Gripping it in his teeth, he drew the stitching all the way out of his skin. The flesh beneath bore a scar, straight and even, but there was no other mark of his injury. Of course, he had not truly needed to stitch the wound - it would have healed of its own accord - but he found that injuries that were not stitched healed unevenly, and Ulkjar was happy to admit to being a vain man.
Putting the sinew and needle back into his pouch, he stood and stretched his side. It felt a little tight, the skin pinching, but it would pass with time. He knew that his son, Bjorn, had inherited this regenerative trait. He had seen the boy slip on the blackened rocks of the coast when looking for mussels and cut his hand deeply on the sharp rock. The boy had not wept, which made him proud, and within an hour the wound had healed completely, leaving just a jagged scar on his palm. Ulkjar had slapped his hand on the lad's shoulder. 'You are a true son of mine.' he had said. 'Some day you will become the chieftain of the Skaelings, and everyone will fear your name.'
Ulkjar grabbed the severed head of the latest challenger and stalked through the press of warriors, striding up the snow-covered hill to where the Daemon Prince Hroth awaited him with his Khazags and the other chieftains. Approaching the gathering atop the hill, he saw that Hroth the Blooded stood in the middle of the rise, towering over everyone present. The daemon prince nodded his heavy head at Ulkjar as the Skaeling approached to join the other chieftains.
There were about thirty of them gathered there. Glancing around at the chieftains, Ulkjar saw that the black-robed sorcerer Sudobaal was there too, as well as three diminutive, hooded figures. Skaven, he thought with distaste.
Ulkjar pushed several of the chieftains roughly out of his way. They turned towards him, hands flashing towards their weapons, but none drew a weapon against him. He stared down at them, for he was at least a full head taller than all present except for Hroth. There was a small pile of skulls at Hroth's side, and he tossed the head of the Norscan to join the others. 'A skull for you, Warlord Hroth, and for great Kharloth, the Blood God.' he said.
The massive daemon chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. 'Another challenger, Ulkjar?'
'Indeed, warlord. My Skaelings are mighty warriors, but they are not the smartest of men.'
The sorcerer
struck his staff on a rock for silence. The chieftains stopped their conversations and turned towards Sudobaal, who stood at the daemon prince's side. He appeared even more twisted and hunched than usual, thought Ulkjar. His face was pinched and full of hatred. He was the daemon's pawn, as were they all, but he was a powerful sorcerer still.
'Our advance scouting tribe was annihilated this day.' spoke the sorcerer. The chieftains shuffled their feet in the snow. 'With sorcery. Our rat-kin friend, the Blind One,' said Sudobaal, indicating one of the hunched skaven, who bowed his head, 'brings us news that our ally in the west has been slain. He died with only part of his duty done. Although he - '
'I will feast on the failure's soul in the Realm of Chaos,' growled Hroth, interrupting the sorcerer.
'Although he did manage to spread plague and dissent across the breadth of the lands of the pitiful weaklings, with the aid of the Blind One and his minions, and cleared our approach southward of enemies, he failed to enter the city, failed in his preparations for our coming.'
'What can you expect from the weakling followers of Nurgle,' snarled one of the chieftains. Another chieftain swore, and turned towards the speaker angrily.
'Enough,' rumbled Hroth, silencing them instantly.
'We also learn through the agents of the Blind One that the slayer of our ally is even now fortifying the Eye of the Forest.'
The chieftains began to murmur amongst themselves. Ulkjar spoke the words that they were thinking.
'Our ally failed to enter the city, and his killer has begun to fortify it, ready for our attack. Why do we not alter our plans, Lord Hroth? We could bypass the Eye of the Forest, and strike out at another target, surely? Sack the cities to the south, those that have never felt the fury of our people? Else could we not head east, and take the fight to the city of the White Wolf?'
