3 the heart of chaos

by ich du

  Felsturm stopped and took the top leaf from his pile of notes and set it to one side before continuing.

  'We have another confirmed sighting of the horde far to our east, but heading west towards our position.' he told them. 'It would be reasonable to believe that they intend to ford the river at Eskivaya, thus having a force both to our right and our left.'

  'So if we move as one force to intercept either, we run the risk of the other either slipping by without a fight, or turning our flank.' said Iversson.

  'That is correct.' Felsturm said, removing the next page of notes and placing it on the first. 'However, there is no reason to believe that the enemy are aware of Count Steinhardt's forces at Getzholm.'

  'So one of us holds Mursk and the other Eskivaya?' suggested Iversson. 'They are less than twenty miles apart, half a day's hard marching. Our force would be more than capable of holding up these thugs at Eskivaya until you arrive to wipe them out.'

  'And what if they do not cross at Eskivaya, but instead continue onwards to Mursk?' asked Bayard. 'That is ten miles to the west, twenty-five from Eskivaya. To defend the town, we would have to split this army, leaving some in reserve to reinforce either crossing depending on where the enemy attack fell.'

  'If they're coming from the east, they'll have to march right past us.' said Iversson. 'We could cross and follow them.'

  Vapold gave a snort and stood. He walked down the length of the table to the door flaps of the pavilion. He untied the laces and opened one of the flaps, the cold wind gusting through the opening, scattering the papers on the table. Felsturm shook his head angrily as he tried to retrieve his windswept notes. Outside, a thin layer of snow was beginning to form, more flakes drifting down quickly. Vapold let the flap fall back and Felsturm gave a nod to one of his men sat next to Bayard to go and re-tie the straps.

  'Why do you think this gods-cursed storm is upon us?' Vapold asked as he stalked back to his chair. 'With the coming blizzard to shield them, they could very well march straight past you and you'd not notice a damn thing.'

  The man at the door gave a shout of surprise as a figure appeared outside and barged in, knocking him aside. Another gust of wind accompanied the man's entrance, scattering Felsturm's notes once more. The captain shot a pleading look to the heavens.

  Boyar Streltzyn was a short, wiry man, much like most Kislevites, but was marked by a jagged scar that ran the length of the right side of his face. His right eye was milky white, blinded by the injury, though he didn't wear an eye patch to cover the disfigurement, instead displaying the scar as proudly as a medal.

  'I sorry for my lateness.' the boyar said with a perfunctory bow towards the count.

  He took off his horsehair-plumed helmet and strode to the empty chair that had been vacated by the officer. Dropping the helmet onto the table he sat down and brought up his muddied riding boots beside it, rocking the chair onto its back legs.

  'I have important news.' he said, crossing his arms. 'I late because I speak to the men who bring it directly.'

  They waited for the lancer commander to continue, but nothing more was forthcoming. He leaned forward and picked up the half full goblet of wine from in front of Lord Bayard.

  'Would you like to share it with us?' Bayard suggested with a frown.

  Streltzyn took a long draught of wine and placed it back on the table with a wide grin, revealing his uneven, yellowing teeth.

  'The glorious lancers and horse archers of the Tsar of Kislev have engaged the enemy.' he declared with a laugh. 'And were victorious! Even now, our brave cavalry are pursuing the Kurgan scum back to the north, driving them from the regions of Erengrad.'

  Bayard sat in stunned silence, while Vapold joined the boyar's laughter, slapping the table.

  'The west is secure?' Felsturm asked, and the boyar took his feet of the table and the chair fell forward. Leaning across the table, Streltzyn nodded, still grinning. Felsturm took two pages of his notes and neatly tore them in half, letting the pieces flutter to the floor.

  'Perhaps we should devise a new plan.' the captain suggested.

  THE SUMMER DAYS were not so long here in Kislev, and the snow clouds obscured the light of the dying sun. The storm had begun to slow, though the snow was still constant, the winds were dying down and the flurries of ice came less often. The campfires hissed and steamed, fighting against the snow. Magnus navigated his way through the maze of guy ropes by their flickering light, fervently hoping that he had not been delayed too long by the interminable council of war. As soon as Vapold had dismissed him, Magnus had sent one of the count's servants to Ruprecht, asking him to come to his tent.

  As he walked, Magnus began to visualise the spell he would need to cast. It was something he had never attempted before, but was a variation on well-practiced skills and he was confident of success. Ruprecht would have to play his part well, but he had only to play it for a short time.

  Clambering through the flap of his tent, Magnus fumbled in the darkness for the tinderbox and flints he kept close to the opening, and after several unsuccessful attempts managed to strike a spark into the oil lamp. Placing the bubbled glass of the cover over the burning wick, he picked up the lantern and carried it to the table beside his cot.

  From under his pillow, he pulled forth his small grimoire and the leaf of parchment onto which he had earlier copied the incantation for Ruprecht. From beneath the bed he produced a small box, and opening the lid took out a small phial of gold-flecked liquid. Dragon's tears it was called, though he knew it was nothing quite so mythic, but rather an alchemical solution that any scholar with the knowledge and patience could create in an alembic over a hot fire.

  Magnus pulled off his snow-moistened robe and stained boots and lay down on the bed, naked except for his undergarments. He pulled the stopper from the phial, revealing a thin nail imbedded in its bottom. Tipping the bottle slightly, he dipped the nail into the dragon's tears and with smooth, swift strokes, scratched a pattern of triangles and five-pointed stars into the skin of his chest. He had not finished when he heard someone outside. Turning his head, he saw Ruprecht ducking into the tent. He stopped halfway in, eying Magnus with suspicion.

  'Come in and shut out that damnable cold air,' Magnus said.

  Ruprecht hesitated for a moment and then complied, pulling tight the drawstrings on the tent flaps and knotting it securely. Magnus nodded to the parchment on the table beside him.

  'Read that, and tell me if there is anything you cannot decipher,' Magnus told Ruprecht.

  'I'm not reading anything until you tell me what it is,' he replied.

  'It's a spell of warding.' said Magnus, finishing with the dragon's tears and pushing the stopper back into the phial. 'It's not couched in any religious nonsense, so it's a bit more potent, but it's nothing that you haven't done before, I assure you.'

  Ruprecht's doubt showed on his face, but he stepped forward and lifted the parchment, scanning down the few lines.

  'It's meaningless,' he said. 'It's just random syllables.'

  'It's not random at all,' snapped Magnus. 'That's the art in written form. Read it out for me so I can check your pronunciation.'

  Ruprecht had the look of a man fighting with his conscience, or rather a boy who knew that he was about to do something forbidden, but was now too afraid to back down.

  'Ak'sha, falara, ten'she,' Ruprecht intoned slowly, 'Amial, phantos, ak'sha, falara, ten'she, adon.'

  'That should be amila,' said Magnus with a frown.

  Ruprecht looked at the parchment again.

  'My mistake,' he said. 'Your handwriting is very small, you know. Amila.'

  'Yes, amila,' said Magnus, with a sudden sense of regret. Perhaps this was not the most intelligent course of action after all.

  'And why do you need an enchantment of protection?' Ruprecht said, sitting down in the chair beside the bed.

  'The shaman will return tonight,' Magnus explained. 'I need to confront him to weave my own hex. Your spell will protect me from
his powers, for long enough at least.'

  'So what else do I need to do?' Ruprecht asked, more comfortable than before.

  'Just keep up the incantation, a bit faster than before, but not too quickly,' Magnus told him.

  'How about this?' Ruprecht said, holding up the parchment again. 'Ak'sha falara, ten'she amila, phantos Ak'sha, falara ten'she, adon.'

  'Yes, that was pretty much perfect,' Magnus said, laying his hands on his protruding belly.

  'The same cadence as a prayer of warding.' Ruprecht replied. 'Just like you said it was.'

  'You begin.' said Magnus.

  'When do I stop?' asked Ruprecht.

  'It'll be very obvious, I suspect.' Magnus said, closing his eyes. 'Start now.'

  Magnus allowed Ruprecht's deep voice to soothe him, listening to the rhythm of his chanting. Feeling relaxed, he began to murmur his own spell, whispering it, his lips barely moving.

  The warlock felt the same jolt he always did when his soul made the transition from his body during a ghostwalk. He pushed himself upward, glancing back just before he left the tent. Ruprecht was still chanting, looking intently at Magnus's inert form.

  Magnus allowed himself to float upwards. Spinning gently, he looked across the skies, seeking his foe. Magnus allowed himself a smile as he spied the tortured, tangled knot of seething power that betrayed his adversary's location. He rose upwards towards it, gaining speed.

  The shaman turned towards him, surrounded by a black cloud of magic, his golden eye blazing brightly. The Chaos sorcerer allowed Magnus to come closer, and he could see a twisted smile on the other spell-caster's face. Magnus brought himself to a halt not far from the shaman, and floated with his arms crossed.

  'So you know some tricks.' the shaman said, in a language that was not translated into words, but was pure thought.

  'Some.' Magnus replied.

  'And what do you hope to do?' sneered the shaman. 'You are pitifully weak, I could crush you without effort.'

  'Perhaps.' conceded Magnus. 'Perhaps not.'

  'You doubt I have the power?' the shaman said angrily. 'Perhaps you are not as clever as I thought.'

  'It is not always about power.' Magnus said, smiling.

  'It's always about power.' the shaman spat back, baring his fangs. There was an inrushing of energy towards the sorcerer, and immense gathering of mystical force.

  This was what Magnus had hoped for. He had been slow in realising it, but listening to the stories of how the northmen could hurls bolts of devastating energy, Ursula's accounts of plague being spread upon the winds and Ruprecht's tales of devastating earthquakes brought about by the dread Chaos worshippers had helped Magnus understand the source of their power.

  He could never hope to match the full ferocity of the raw energy they could channel. But the shamans were crude and inefficient compared to the delicate art that Magnus had been taught by his old master. They had no subtlety, and it was this that he was about to use.

  Unleashing his fury, the shaman thrust an ethereal hand out towards Magnus and a dark stream of energy erupted from his clawed fingertips. As the sorcerous bolt struck Magnus it encountered the ward provided by Ruprecht far below them, and a bright blue light engulfed both of them.

  The protection would last only a matter of heartbeats, but it gave Magnus the time he needed. In that moment of connection as Magnus's soul was joined to the shaman's by the dark lighting, he unleashed the hex he had been preparing. It was small, unnoticed amongst the surging energy of the shaman's assault, gliding instantly along the merest thread of magic into Magnus's opponent. It was almost nothing, just a thought, an image, that Magnus had been preparing in his mind all the while he had sat and listened to the deliberations of the war council.

  The protective shield melted away almost instantly and the dark flames of the shaman's attack engulfed Magnus. His soul searing with unholy pain, Magnus plummeted back towards his body.

  RUPRECHT FALTERED IN his chant as he saw smoke begin to rise from Magnus's body. The spell wasn't working, he realised. Panicked, he began again, but it was too late: already the warlock's skin was beginning to blister and split. The stench of charring flesh filled Ruprecht's nostrils and he gagged.

  Magnus's eyes fluttered open and he cried out hoarsely. Ruprecht leaned over him, and Magnus flopped a burnt arm around his shoulders. Tears of pain rolled down the warlock's seared cheeks. His cracked lips turned into a smile.

  'It worked?' asked Ruprecht and Magnus nodded, wincing with the effort. He pulled Ruprecht closer.

  'The pain is harsh, but I will survive,' he whispered.

  'I know,' said Ruprecht.

  'Now I am at yourmercy,' croaked Magnus. 'You have fulfilled your end of the bargain.'

  'Yes I have.' Ruprecht answered quietly. 'I will tell no one of what has happened tonight.'

  Magnus laughed, a cracked, tortured sound.

  'I knew that I could trust you.' he said. 'But in any case you have no other option. Your involvement implicates you. You have willingly participated in the conjuration of magic, for which there can be no excuse. You would be signing your own death warrant.'

  'Your secret dies with me.' said Ruprecht with a smile.

  He pulled Magnus's arm from his shoulder and sat up. Slowly, almost gently, Ruprecht placed a meaty hand across the smouldering face of the warlock. Magnus tried to struggle, but in his weakened state he was no match for the heavy warrior. Ruprecht kept his grip over Magnus's nose and mouth for several minutes, long after he had ceased struggling. Standing, he folded the dead man's arms over his chest and then wiped the smear of blood and charred skin from his palms on the blanket. He picked up the oil lantern as he stepped away, tossing the glass case to the floor. With his free hand he pulled the slipknot he had tied earlier, and darted a glance into the darkness. There was no one to see him.

  Ducking out of the tent, Ruprecht tossed the lamp onto the rug, spilling boiling oil everywhere. As Ruprecht hurried away into the night, the fire took hold, engulfing the tent in a small inferno.

  'And my secret dies with you.' he muttered to himself as shouts of alarm began to echo across the camp.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Battle Joined

  Mursk, Early autumn 1712

  JAKOB WAS FEELING pleased with himself. Everything was unfolding as he had planned, and when Sutenvulf returned the southerners would be trapped like rabbits in a snare. The storm was dissipating quickly now, its fury spent, but it no longer mattered, it had served its purpose well.

  He had loitered above the camp of the Empire soldiers until daybreak, to be sure that they had fallen for his ploy. As he had guessed they would, they had marched to the ford, believing that their Kislevite allies had secured the west and thinking that Sutenvulf's marauders were crossing at the ford.

  Sutenvulf's forces were even now closing for the kill on the Empire army at Eskivaya, and Mursk would not hold for longer against the nine thousand battle-hungry warriors under the command of Hors Skalding. From here, joined from the west by Kul's horsemen, they would sweep along the Urskoy and attack the army waylaid by Undar's three thousand men and beasts.

  Yes, today was indeed going to be a fine day.

  KIRIS KUL BID farewell to his father and turned his horse around. The snows were definitely thinning and he wanted to get as far north as possible before the stupid Kislevites realised their mistake. As his father led the three thousand horsemen still under his command to the east, to turn south again later, Kiris joined the two hundred riders that had been given to him to lead. With a shout, he set them riding north. Moving at a trot, the Kurgan tribesmen wove their horses in and around each other, their hooves kicking up swathes of snow that heaped upon each other, leaving obvious tracks that could be followed, but would not give away their numbers. It was a tactic the Kul had employed often when travelling across the steppes in a rival's territory, but normally to hide their strength rather than mask their lack of numbers.

  They stopped at irregular inter
vals and rode in circles, marking time until they again saw the dark silhouettes of the pursuing Kislevites in the distance, obscured by the lightening snow. Kiris would wait just long enough to ensure that the troops following them could see them, giving his foes the hope that they might yet catch their elusive prey. He would then order the march to begin again, quickly moving out of sight so that the enemy would never see their true numbers.

  It was not as glorious as the battle that his father was riding towards, but Kiris had felt honoured when his father had entrusted him with this important task. The snow was no longer so heavy that it made riding unpleasant, and Kiris was enjoying his game of wolf and hare with the lancers that trailed him.

  He made a wager with Entai, his cousin, that he could keep the Kislevites following for two whole days.

  DRUMBEATS FILLED THE air as the warriors of Hors Skalding marched upon Mursk. Holding aloft standards of skulls and bones, banners daubed with runes and symbols of their Dark Gods flapping the breeze, the northmen surged across the snowy plains in a tide of fury.

  Amongst them larger shapes moved, the hunched and tortured shapes of the Gifted. Dwarfing even these were three monstrous beasts at the forefront of the host, their lower portions four-legged and heavily scaled like a reptile, their more humanoid upper bodies broad and muscular. These were the dragon ogres that had ventured down from the mountaintops to investigate the large army that disturbed their slumber and had decided to join the war.

  Horned and furred figures were spread in loose groups amongst the tribesmen. From the mountains and the forests, the beastmen had come forth, feeling the breath of the gods strong in the air, answering the call of their divine masters. They barked and brayed constantly to one another, squabbling amongst themselves, even more unruly than the marauders.

  At the centre of the army marched the toughest of the fighters, heavily armoured warriors and champions of the gods who had learned the art of war battling constantly against each other in the Northern Wastes. Amongst them, Jakob was mounted on a sturdy steppe horse, riding alongside Hors. The Norse warlord was in high spirits, joking with his companions and boasting about how much loot he would take from the Kislevite town.