by ich du
'What else would I tell them?' she asked. 'If the truth does not prove my providence, than nothing does.'
'You're putting a lot of faith in him,' warned Ruprecht. 'Did you not learn anything about how nobles think when you were dealing with Luiten? What if he tries to take Ulfshard from you, for himself? What about that?'
'He won't,' said Ursula.
'How can you be so sure?' said Ruprecht, sitting down next to Johannes. 'They're all of the same breed.'
'The city of the black and white wolf,' Ursula said, her eyes taking on the now familiar distant look. 'Sigmar led me here for help.'
URSULA WAS DOZING when the door opened, but she became instantly awake. Ruprecht's snores still drifted over from where he was lain on the floor, half a goblet of wine balanced on his chest, head propped up on an embroidered cushion. Johannes was asleep too, head lolling over the arm of the couch.
It was the astrologer who stepped through and smiled at Ursula. He seemed distracted for a moment and then gathered himself. He looked at Ruprecht and Johannes and shook his head. Without a word, he gestured for Ursula to precede him back through the door, and closed it quietly behind him as they walked back into the audience chamber.
Vapold was seated on his throne, in conversation with a broad-shouldered man in plate armour. The knight wore a long purple cloak with a yellow trim, and he carried a purple and yellow plumed helmet under his arm. The colours were familiar to Ursula, but she couldn't place them. As she approached, the knight turned, the expression on his age-lined face one of suspicion.
'There's someone who wishes very much to speak to you,' Vapold said, waving an arm towards the knight. 'May I introduce Lord Bayard, new Commander of the Osterknacht?'
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sundered
Realm of Chaos
ACTINIC FLARES OF energy criss-crossed the roiling skies, forking down in bolts of purple and orange lightning. The clouds themselves formed half-faces, screaming wordlessly at the hapless mortals below. Malignant eyes, filled with malicious intelligence, glowed within the dark haze.
The ground itself seethed with the power of the magical storm, its shape flowing like a river, undulating and cracking apart, reforming into new and strange structures. Great rib-like towers tore through the tortured earth, glowing with unearthly runes. Pools of burning oil bubbled to the surface, belching noxious fumes that stank of rotted flesh.
As the earth opened up, it revealed a layer of corpses, some fresh, others little more than ragged bones. The cadavers seemed to writhe with unlife as the ground shifted and changed, playing out an obscene dance in death. Bodies tumbled over skeletons, heads lolling to some maddening, unheard rhythm while limbs twitched and flailed in erratic patterns, gripping long-decayed weapons and shields.
A terrible moaning could be heard from the clouds above, a bass lamentation that trembled the ground and caused the air to shake with its strength. Behind its deep tones a chorus of high-pitched wailing joined in on occasion, a strident, ear-splitting cacophony of daemonic voices.
Jakob felt himself battered from side to side by the arcane forces unleashed by the Realm of Chaos. The breath of the gods lifted him up into the air on unseen wings, violently spinning and turning him, his ragged clothes spiralling from his body as he plummeted back to the ground, which opened up beneath him like a slobbering maw, enveloping him in caresses of fleshy folds.
Orst howled and whined, swaying back and forth insanely, gnashing his fangs and clawing at the ground. As the ground rippled like a stone-disturbed puddle, the champion-beast reared to his hind legs, beating his chest with his fists, his eyes blazing. His claws ripped great chunks from his fur and thick hide, his pelt stained with thick ichor from the self-inflicted wounds.
Vlamdir was curled into a foetal ball, pounding his head against the rocky ground. His armour burned and smouldered within his flesh, bringing with it the stench of charring human fat. Beside the devoted of Kharga stood Bjordrin, his silvered skin mirroring the torment that was tearing across the earth and sky, his beard fusing into writhing bundles of wiry threads that waved and knotted themselves with a life of their own.
All about was Chaos unleashed, the full fury of the realm of the gods given vent. Through the blinding flashes of energy, another world could be seen in momentary glimpses. Great armies of daemonic creatures marched against each other, their dark, living banners held above the dark hosts. Immense creatures with bestial faces and wings of fire and shadow swept to and fro in the skies, lashing at each other with burning, screaming blades.
The harsh blare of horns could be heard in the distance, accompanied by rapid, lunatic drumming that followed no even beat. The screams of immortal creatures and the deafening bellows of the gods' servants mingled into a meaningless dissonance.
Pulling himself from the slavering hole into which he had fallen, Jakob looked around for Kurt, desperately seeking a sign that his master was close, perhaps obscured or slightly shifted, but nearby nonetheless. There was nothing, no telltale mark within the swirling magical energies.
As the magical storm broke, there was still no sign of Kurt. Above them the sky calmed to its normal shifting waves of translucent colour. Jakob could feel nothing of the Chosen, no lingering presence nearby that he had become so accustomed to. It was then that he realised just how familiar he had become to following Kurt, and now that reassuring presence, that palpable incarnation of the gods' will, had gone. There was a new emptiness inside Jakob that ate at his soul.
WITH THE ABATEMENT of the storm came a new danger. Shapes gathered in the distance, dark shadowy things that could not be seen when directly looked upon.
'Stay close.' said Undar, a heavy axe in each hand.
'Where is Kurt?' asked Bjordrin, looking around. 'We need him!'
'He is gone.' said Jakob with a disconsolate shake of his head.
'Gone?' said Gird, still holding on to the shaking banner pole decorated with the bones of his brother. 'Gone where?'
'He is gone.' said Jakob, still not quite able to believe what he had seen, or what he thought he had seen.
'The storm took him.' said Vlamdir, picking himself up. 'I saw it. It swept him away.'
'Then the gods have taken him?' suggested Gird. 'Perhaps he is with them now.'
'Here they come.' warned Undar, silencing the others.
In a dark wave, the daemonic pack swept towards them, the earth and air warping and shifting around them. Through the breach caused by the terrible storm, seven of the creatures had broken through. They were pus-slicked, rotted things formed from the whims of Nierg, god of decay, patron of the diseased and dying.
They stalked forwards on malnourished legs, their limbs thin and wasted, their joints swollen with cankerous fluid. Each had a bloated gut, reminiscent of a corpse swollen with gas, tears in their unnatural flesh spilling entrails and sickly gore.
They were cyclopean, famished faces pinched around a single staring, yellowing orb, their heads rising to a single broken and cracked horn. In their hands they held jagged knives and cleavers, like obscene butchers. As they approached closer, Jakob could see their lips moving constantly and the sky was filled with an eternal murmuring, a disturbing whisper of regular rhythm. It was the sound of the plaguebearers counting, tallying the diseases and poxes of the world.
The air around the tallymen swarmed with black, fat flies, buzzing in a dark cloud. Their red and black bodies batted against each other and the grey-green skin of the daemons, their droning rising and falling in volume to the count of the plaguebearers.
'Their touch means death.' warned Vlamdir, gripping his axe tightly. He gagged as he looked at the approaching visions of mortification. 'We can't fight them!'
'We can!' roared Undar, lifting his axes above his head.
'I'm with Vlamdir.' said Gird, backing away from the approaching monstrosities.
'What about Kurt?' said Bjordrin, unsheathing his sword. The stench from the daemons of Nierg was overpowering, filling his
mouth and nostrils like a noxious soup. 'We can't leave him.'
Orst growled in agreement.
Jakob had recovered his senses now, and looked upon the plaguebearers with his golden eye. He could see the miasma of power at the heart of each of them, the kernel of magical energy that allowed them to stay in the realm of mortals. Here in the north such power faded slowly, and was not easily destroyed.
'We cannot fight them.' Jakob called to the others. 'Our weapons are useless against them.'
'I would rather die than retreat.' replied Undar.
The plaguebearers were close now, sniffing the air, grinning to each other in the manner that a skull grins in death.
'Then you will die.' said Jakob.
'You can banish them!' said Vlamdir, moving to stand beside the shaman. 'Command them to return to the realm of the gods!'
Jakob started backing away from the creatures.
'I did not summon them.' the shaman said. 'I cannot send them back.'
'Use your magic to destroy them, then!' said Bjordrin.
'It is too dangerous.' Jakob pleaded. 'The power of the gods is too strong!'
'Risk it!' snarled Bjordrin, pointing his sword at the shaman. 'If not, I'll kill you myself. If our weapons are useless, your magic is the only defence we have.'
Jakob saw the others staring at him expectantly. A glance at the plaguebearers showed them to be less than a dozen yards away now. With a sense of foreboding, Jakob opened himself up to the energy swirling around him.
As the magic poured into Jakob his rune-stones began to glow more strongly, and with wet noises they detached from his flesh and began to circle him, bobbing up and down erratically. Little forks of energy played between them as Jakob drew in the power he needed and began to chant, calling upon Jaenz, master of magic.
With a pained shout, Jakob released the energy inside him. The rune-stones were sucked back into his body, knocking him from his feet as an undulating wave of power burst from his staff towards the plaguebearers. Shifting from yellow to orange to red, the swelling beam of magic erupted around the daemons, engulfing them in its miasma of ruddy light.
The plaguebearers writhed with agony, their bony limbs snapping, their skin peeling away to reveal the magical core within, each a small galaxy of putrescent filth swirling around a glowing centre. Like pus leaking from a lanced boil the creatures of Nierg began to melt away, pustules and blisters erupting across their incorporeal flesh and exploding with filth. Within a few heartbeats all that remained were oozing puddles of ichor, gently bubbling and steaming.
JAKOB'S HEAD SPUN, his stomach fluttered and nausea swept over him. The spell had robbed him of his energy and he fell to his back, his spine arching as the magical winds flowed into the vacuum within his soul. Black sweat gathered on his pallid flesh as his good eye fluttered open and closed. His breathing became a feverish panting and his mind slipped away into a dark recess of his self.
The shaman found himself away from his pain-ravaged body, floating in a clear night sky. He was free from all mortal bonds and he wondered for a moment whether he had died. He dismissed the thought and looked around.
The ground below was dark but covered with thousands of tiny pinpricks of light, as if the stars were reflected in a great, still lake. He found that he could move himself around with a mere thought and lowered himself hesitantly towards the ground, inching downwards. As his confidence grew, he began to accelerate.
There was no sensation of falling other than the lights on the ground getting closer and closer. There was no howling of wind, no feeling of falling, no rush of air against his bodiless form. Jakob laughed.
The feeling was of total freedom.
As he neared the ground he slowed his descent and could see that the flickering pinpricks were in fact torches, thousands upon thousands of guttering flames held aloft. Swooping over the lights he saw that it was a massive army, heading southwards through the night. The warriors were dressed in all different styles and manners, and he recognised the furs of the Norse alongside the leather and horsehair of the Kurgan.
The army stretched out as far as he could see, a great tide of northmen heading in a single direction: south. South towards the Empire, south towards the lands of those who had so brazenly opposed the will of the gods. It was with a start that he realised that it was not night at all, but some monstrous shadow had engulfed the sun, blocking its light. Darkness had truly descended upon the world. To Jakob it was clear what he had to do.
WITH A GROAN Jakob awoke. For a few moments he was not sure of this, though, for the Chaos Wastes, the writhing sky and uncertain ground, felt less real than his encounter with the army. His face was wet with sweat and he wiped it with the cuff of his furs and sat up. The others were gathered close by, deep in argument. Jakob pushed himself to his feet, his breathing laboured and listened to what was being said.
'Of course we can't just wait here forever.' Bjordrin was saying. 'The gods have taken him from us, and he may never return.'
Orst growled and clawed at the ground.
'All the more reason to press on.' argued the malformed Undar, his chest, shoulders and arms, blistered with inhuman muscle, heaved in and out as he spoke. 'I will lead us to the Gate of the Gods. I am just as worthy!'
'But what about the hounds?' argued Vlamdir. 'They came to the Sutenvulf, not to you. I think the gods have made their choice.'
'And the daemons?' said Gird. 'There are fell creatures abroad in these lands, and we can't fight them off forever.'
'Kurt was one man!' Undar said. 'I am just as worthy a leader.'
'So what do you propose we do?' asked Gird, cradling the shaft of the banner pole like it was a babe, no longer able to grip it in his clawed hands. 'Jakob! What do you think?'
The shaman did not answer, but instead stared into the sky.
'Hi! Jakob!' Undar called and finally the shaman turned to them. He hobbled over, gazing at them with his golden eye.
'Bjordrin is right, he is with the gods now.' Jakob said slowly, the words slurred. 'If he returns, he will not return here.' 'So we go back?' said Undar. 'We just turn back and head south?'
'Yes.' said Jakob, stepping close to the enormous warrior, gazing up with the metallic orb of his eye. 'We return to our lands and wait for a sign.'
'What sign?' said Gird. 'What if they never send him back?'
'It is by the will of the gods that he is gone, and not for us to guess.' said Jakob. 'We go back, and we prepare.'
'Prepare for what?' asked Bjordrin.
'The war to come.' said Jakob with a smile. 'Blood and death, Kurt vowed. In blood and death he will return. When he does, he will need an army. We go forth and prepare the way for him.'
'And what will this sign be?' Undar demanded. 'How will we know he has returned?'
Jakob laughed, a cruel sound that caused even Undar to recoil in fear.
'You will know.' cackled Jakob. 'The whole world will know.'
CHAPTER NINE
Wolfenburg, Early 1712
URSULA'S FIRST REACTION was to run, but she held her ground and instead directed a venomous glare at Count Vapold. He held up his hands as if to ward away the accusation. She could feel the presence of Magnus close behind her.
'Purely coincidence,' the count said. He hesitated before continuing. 'Lord Bayard is here on entirely different matters. However, he may be able to verify some of the details of your... exploits.'
The knight was looking at her with an odd expression, partly of disbelief and partly of awe, or perhaps it was fear. Ursula now noticed that his cloak was travel stained, his boots muddied.
'You really are Fraulein Schenk?' Bayard said. 'The accomplice of Kurt Leitzig?'
'She is,' said Magnus, stepping forward. 'Our information is quite detailed.'
'Then perhaps it is you who can provide verification for me.' said the knight-commander.
'It is very late, and both of you have been travelling.' said Vapold, rising from his throne and walking f
orward to stand between them. 'I suggest that we all get some rest, and perhaps tomorrow, with clearer heads, we can provide answers to each other's questions.'
'I must check on the boy before I retire.' said Bayard.
'Of course.' said Magnus, stepping away from Ursula, towards the main doors. 'He and your men are being cared for in the north tower. If you follow me, I will have you taken to them.'
Bayard nodded and the two of them turned and walked down the length of the audience chamber, Ursula and Vapold watching them in silence. As they left, Magnus closing the door with a last look at Ursula, Ursula turned to the count.
'Boy?' she said. 'What boy?'
'Tomorrow, Ursula, tomorrow.' Vapold replied. 'You should rouse your friends, while I send for someone to show you to the chambers I have had prepared for you.'
'How did you know I would be coming?' Ursula asked.
'Tomorrow.' Vapold said again. 'Tomorrow we will have answers, tonight you should sleep.'
MAGNUS COULD NOT sleep. His body was tingling, infused by the power emanated by the girl. He lay in his bed, eyes closed, and he could feel her presence, the wash of energy that had swept over him. Much of the power was wasted on her, seeping away and dissipating, but the core of it, the raw faith that suffused her soul, was potent. So very potent.
The last time Magnus had felt anything like this had been the first time his old master had taken him to a tavern and made him drink so much wine that he could barely stand. The room spun slowly around Magnus, and his stomach fluttered lightly. His old master had never prepared him for this. The drinking session had been very important to the old master, a lesson in humanity and control. Drunk to the point of insensibility, Magnus had been instructed to use a conjuration, a mere cantrip that he had learned within a few days of his apprenticeship. It had gone horribly wrong though, as his addled mind and mouth had fumbled the incantation, and had inadvertently set fire to a chair in the masters study. The next day Magnus, feeling sick and sorry as a hound, was quick to agree that one who practised the arts must do so with absolute concentration and power at all times. He had never drunk since.
