[Florin & Lorenzo 01] - The Burning Shore

by Robert Earl - (ebook by Undead)

  A WARHAMMER NOVEL

  THE BURNING

  SHORE

  Florin & Lorenzo - 01

  Robert Earl

  (An Undead Scan v1.0)

  This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

  At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.

  But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering World’s Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever near, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Florin d’Artaud loved cards. He loved the way they purred like contented animals when the dealer shuffled them. He loved the soft, waxy feel of them between his fingertips as he fanned them out, and the way their faces smiled up at him like old friends.

  Most of all, he loved the way their patinas of faded ink could light up his whole world, the way that they could send his pulse racing and his blood fizzing through his veins like sparkling wine.

  Yes, Florin loved cards. And if the cards didn’t always return the favour, what of it? A gentleman accepted his losses and paid them off however he could.

  But tonight, for once, he wasn’t losing. He was winning, and winning big.

  Trying to ignore the sweat that plastered the silk of his tunic to the hard muscles of his back, he studied the dealer’s face. It resembled a punching bag, but judging by the glitter in the depths of his eyes, Florin guessed that the man had just as often punched back.

  As wrinkled and creased as an old leather glove, the zigzagging scars that crossed the broken angle of his nose were almost comically ugly, and for that Florin was grateful.

  As far as he was concerned, it was that hideously ugly face that had brought him so much luck tonight.

  “The game remains ogre’s fist,” the old battler announced portentously, snapping the cards into a neat rectangle and glancing down at his snuffbox. Even in this dingy backroom the burnished steel of its lid shone like a mirror.

  “Aces high. A run beats a flush.”

  Although they’d been huddled in the smoky miasma of the backroom all night, and the dealer had introduced every hand with that same dull mantra, the gamblers nodded again. They leaned closer to the table, their faces damp and flushed and gleaming in the rich yellow light of the room’s single lamp, and their eyes grew harder.

  There had been half a dozen of them at first, but luck had thinned down their ranks. Now only, three remained. The gold of their beaten opponents stood stacked in front of these survivors—the piles as high and neat as the bars of a cage.

  Florin watched the last of his five cards slide to a halt in front of him. He savoured the excitement of every new hand before picking it up. His face remained blank. Neither a flicker of a smile nor the hint of a frown marred his even features as he studied his cards. His dark eyes remained impassive as he slid them into order. And, although he paused to brush a strand of hair back from the high dome of his forehead, his hands remained steady.

  As Florin examined his hand from behind his nonchalant mask, the dealer glanced up at one of the other players: a heavily-built Reiklander with a brightly hennaed mane of hair. As their eyes met, the dealer tugged at his twisted earlobe three times, and tapped the crooked bridge of his nose twice.

  “Well, then gentlemen, if you’re ready. The betting starts with you, sir.”

  Somehow he managed to make the honorific sound like an insult, but Florin didn’t care. He had other things on his mind.

  “Let’s start with three crowns,” he said carefully.

  “Three crowns bet,” the dealer intoned as Florin slid the money across the table.

  “Too rich for my blood,” the Reiklander dropped his hand. The third player, a wiry little runt of a Tilean, grunted his agreement and folded too.

  “The pot’s yours, sir.”

  Florin passed his full house back and gathered up the handful of coins without a trace of disappointment.

  The Reiklander and the Tilean tried not to smile at their accomplice as he shuffled again. They had made a real killing tonight. Perhaps that was why the dealer’s fingers were as sure as an honest man’s as he dealt another hand over the mirrored lid of his snuffbox.

  “The game remains ogre’s fist,” he intoned. “Aces high. A run beats a flush.”

  The three players picked up their cards, fanned them out, and considered their options. The Reiklander tugged at the roll of fat that bulged beneath his chin and watched the dealer. When Florin glanced down, the scarred old villain’s left eye winked shut in what might have been a twitch.

  “I’ll bet four… no let’s make it six crowns,” the redhead said, counting out his coins and sliding them into the pot.

  The Tilean sighed theatrically and looked at his cards as though he was about to burst into tears.

  “Six it is,” he agreed and glanced at Florin.

  “Six, and raise you six,” the younger man said, knocking the coins off one of the three piles, in front of him.

  “See your six, raise you six,” the Reiklander said after a moment’s fake hesitation.

  The Tilean, a better actor, scratched unhappily at his goatee and twisted one of his rings. Then he shrugged.

  “I’m in.” He pushed twelve more coins into the table.

  “Raise you twelve,” Florin said, excitement tugging the corners of his mouth into a reluctant smile.

  The redhead saw the expression and glanced quickly at the dealer, whose eye twitched again.

  “And another twelve.”

  The Tilean looked from his companion to the dealer. Then he squeezed the bridge of his sharp little nose between his fingertips.

  “What’s the bet?” he asked nervously.

  “Twenty-four crowns to stay in the game,” the dealer told him, as though twenty-four gold crowns were of no more concern than so many beans.

  “Very well, twenty-four.” He counted out the bet and pushed it reluctantly into the centre of the table. For a moment his hand hovered over the money, as if he was considering snatching it back.

  “Well, I’ll raise you… Oh I don’t know, what do we think?” Florin couldn’t help gloating at the fear that shone on the Tilean’s sweaty face. “Let’s say another twenty-four.”

  He counted out half of his remaining coins. Silence, as thick as oil, filled the room; it was broken only by the hiss of an oil lamp and the clink of gold.

  The redhead, pale now apart from two high red spots on his cheeks, took a deep breath and counted out twenty-four coins. Then, with a final glance at the dealer, he counted out the last of his money.

  “Raise you fifteen,” he snapped and looked once more at his cards.

  “I’m out,” the Tilean sighed, as if he didn’t know whether
to be miserable or relieved. His chair squeaked backwards as he reached behind him for a bottle of wine. He uncorked it and poured it down his throat as though his stomach was on fire.

  “Raise you twenty,” Florin smiled and pushed the last of his coins across the table.

  The redhead considered the gleaming pile of gold in front of him. It seemed to have a gravity all of its own, a way of attracting everything in the room to the rich glimmer of its weight. There were coins there from the Empire, the Southlands, even distant Cathay.

  And there were enough of them to buy this tavern twice over.

  “Will you take an IOU?” he asked without lifting his eyes from the treasure.

  Florin barked with explosive laughter, impervious to the flash of sudden hatred that glinted in his opponent’s eyes.

  “This is no time to joke, my man. If you don’t have enough to cover the bet, well then…” He waved his hands eloquently.

  “All right,” the redhead scowled. “I’m sure you’ll take this.”

  Reaching into the grimy depths of his tunic he pulled out a small velvet purse. Carefully, with surprising delicacy for such a big man, he tipped the contents out into the palm of his hand and held them up to the light.

  A diamond glittered hard and cold, the silver into which it was set dull by comparison. Florin leaned forward to examine the jewel.

  “Why do you only have one?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “It’s an earring. Where’s the other one?”

  “Does that concern you?” the Reiklander asked, his voice ominously low.

  “No,” Florin replied. “I’ll accept it.”

  With a final look at the dealer the redhead dropped the earring onto the mess of coins that spilled across the centre of the table.

  “I’ll call you.”

  Florin swallowed and realised, for the first time, how damp his palms had become.

  “Well, what have you got?” his opponent snarled with impatience.

  “Kings,” Florin smiled, and turned over the first.

  The second.

  And the third.

  The redhead took a deep breath, before running a hand through the thatch of his hair. He grinned at the dealer. Even though every game of the evening had been fixed, even those they’d lost, this last hand had been damned nerve-wracking. All that gold was enough to make anyone nervous.

  “Well,” he began cheerfully, turning to Florin, “you had me worried there, but…”

  Florin turned over a fourth king.

  “Four kings,” he said, unnecessarily. “Can you beat that?”

  For a moment the gamblers sat and looked at the dealer, whose mouth had fallen open.

  “Four kings wins,” he managed at last.

  A smash as the Tilean dropped his wine bottle brought them back to life.

  “Well, gentlemen,” Florin said, reaching out with both hands to scoop the pot. “It’s been a real pleasure.”

  The redhead sat open-mouthed as his gold disappeared into Florin’s purse.

  “We’ll have a rematch anytime you want,” Florin said, eyeing the big man warily. But his attention had turned to the dealer who, for the first time that evening, was beginning to sweat.

  He pulled at the tip of his crushed nose as if trying to straighten it, then rubbed his brow. Then he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down unhappily.

  “I’ll be on my way then,” Florin said, to nobody in particular. His eyes flicked from the two other players to their failed accomplice.

  “Here’s a little something for your trouble,” he told the dealer, dropping a handful of coins on the table and backing towards the door.

  “Thanks,” the man nodded unhappily.

  “My pleasure. Good night.”

  And with that Florin turned and, fighting the urge to run, rattled his way down the stairs and out into the darkness beyond.

  The three men sat as if hypnotized. But when the door slammed below, they returned to their senses. Leaping to their feet, they rushed to follow Florin out into the night.

  * * *

  Although it was as black as pitch in the alleyway, Florin could tell that dawn was not far off. It had something to do with the smell: the first faint stirrings of the ocean breeze had started to stir through the miasma of sewage and mouldering plaster. It was the smell of Bordeleaux.

  Shifting the heavy purse on his belt, Florin hurried out of the darkness of the alleyway and into the street beyond. Here pale starlight mixed with the glow of a dying moon to set the bleached walls and painted shutters of the district aglow.

  Testing the weight of the coins once more Florin grinned, his teeth shining in the pale light. He hurried back towards his lodgings. The exhilaration of his victory carried him unheeding through the potholes and clumps of raw sewage that slimed the street. He began to whistle but stopped when caution took over.

  After all, he’d won often enough to know that it was a lot more dangerous than losing.

  He pressed on until he’d rounded two more corners. Then he stopped, waiting and listening in the deep shadows.

  It was quiet now. Only the sounds of the city’s troubled sleep rose above its cooling chimneys and gabled roofs. Here and there a dog barked in the night, or a gust of wind smashed a tile or banged a shutter closed. There was an occasional distant cry, although whether of drunkenness or pain it was impossible to tell. Once a high-pitched scream floated across the city before it was suddenly choked off. Laughter followed.

  Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Florin was about to start back home when he heard the sound of his pursuers. Their footsteps were cautious but insistent as they pattered after him, jogging hastily over the broken cobbles of the street.

  With his back pressed firmly to the wall Florin craned his head around the corner and peered back down the street.

  Although they were no more than silhouettes in the gloom there was no doubt that the pair following him were indeed the card-sharps. The Reiklander was conspicuous thanks to his size; he dwarfed the wiry form of the Tilean who scampered along in his wake.

  Time to run, Florin told himself, his pulse accelerating. There was certainly no point waiting for his pursuers to catch up, even though facing them would provide one hell of a challenge.

  A sudden flash of steel appeared in one of his pursuers’ hands as they drew nearer; it gleamed as coldly as the stars that flickered above.

  No point hanging around, Florin decided. It would be a mistake to look for trouble with two armed men. To push a bluff too far. A mistake to listen to the siren song of rushing blood that hissed in his ears.

  As the cheated card-sharps rushed towards the corner the Tilean slipped in the filth that slicked the cobbles. He swore, his deep southern accent unmistakable.

  “Quiet!” his comrade hissed, turning on him angrily.

  Florin’s teeth shone again as he smiled in the darkness. By now the thrill of winning a few games of cards had disappeared like morning mist, burnt away by a rush of a terrible new excitement that wasn’t much different from fear. It gleamed within the darkness of his eyes, and on the sheen of sweat that dewed his skin.

  “Ah, to hell with it,” he said out aloud and stepped back around the corner.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” he greeted them as warmly as if they had been guests in the family home. “Lost?”

  The Tilean was the first to recover from his surprise.

  “Yes, we are. We’re lost,” he began unconvincingly. His friend, however, was beyond any pretence. Desperation was apparent in the ragged emotion in his voice, the smell of his sweat, the sharpness of his movements.

  It occurred to Florin that he might have made a mistake.

  “Give us back our money,” he demanded, closing on Florin. He chopped his cutlass through the air as he approached; the gesture as casual as the swish of a cat’s tail before the pounce.

  “I don’t have any of your money,” Florin countered, feigning confusion as he
stepped back and prepared to counter the attack that he realised was inevitable. It had been inevitable right from the start.

  “Please?” the Tilean pleaded from behind his comrade, his hands spread wide. “Return it and you can go.”

  As he said this, the Reiklander leapt forward with a roar, his cutlass blurring into a lethal arc aimed at his victim’s legs.

  Every instinct told Florin to leap backwards, or upwards—anywhere but into the attack.

  He leapt into the attack.

  Florin tore his dagger from its sheath as he rocketed forward. He caught his opponent in the centre of the chest with his shoulder, then twisted the blade to one side and cut upwards.

  With a grunt of surprise the Reiklander lurched backwards, trying to reverse the angle of his flailing sword arm. But before he could, the dagger’s edge had sliced through the muscle of his bicep as neatly as a wire through cheese.

  The Reiklander howled with pain and jumped away, slashing wildly at his foe as he did so. Reversing the grip on his dagger, Florin pressed forward, his mind full of predatory concentration.

  Again the redhead lunged at him and again Florin leapt into the blow, this time slashing at the pale white target of the flesh beneath the Reiklander’s beard.

  The steel connected with scarcely a sound.

  The big man fell back. His weapon clattered onto the cobbles as both hands fluttered up to staunch the sudden pulsing of warm blood. Florin danced warily to one side, the lethal point of his concentration focused on his enemy. The Reiklander fell to his knees; it was the opening Florin needed.

  But before he could finish him off, the Tilean struck.

  In the long, long seconds of his fight with the bigger man Florin had completely forgotten about the second. It was a lapse that almost cost him his life. While he and the big Reiklander had been struggling the Tilean had slipped behind him, waiting for an opportunity to strike. And the opportunity was now.

  With a grunt of effort, the Tilean’s sword whipped silently forward, tearing through the silk of Florin’s shirt with an angry whine. It sent a line of white-hot pain slicing across the muscles of his back.