The bulk of the elven force consisted of tightly-ordered companies of spearmen and archers. Though not as thoroughly steeped in the martial lore as the Swordmasters and Reavers, they still presented a much more impressive aspect than most of their human allies. They kept in close formation throughout the march, eschewing the crude banter of the state troops and staying eerily silent. Their equipment was of the highest quality, and glinted brightly even in the weak sunlight. In contrast to the gaudy patterns of the Empire militia, the insignias on their shields were elegant and artfully inscribed. Contingents had been drawn from all over Ulthuan. Hawks of Yvresse were seen beside the tower emblems of Hoeth and the sea dragons of Eataine. Behind them, bolt thrower teams followed. Even though the machines were far lighter than the clumsy human equivalents, they were still borne by horses, whose progress through the grime could be laborious when the ground became treacherous. They were worth it, however, and Artheris was glad of them. Volleys of blackpowder weapons working in concert with the bolts of the elven machines would give any enemy commander something to ponder.
At the vanguard of the entire cavalcade stood Artheris’s retinue. Standard bearers, human and asur, carried the mighty devices of the assembled companies proudly. Foremost among them was Artheris’s own insignia, the crested horse-head of the Ellyrian knights surmounted by the rune Lecai. In the still, close weather it hung limply from the spear shaft. Other emblems, including the black and gold of the Reiksguard, clustered around it.
As she stood, absorbing the shape of her army, considering the ways it might be employed when the time came, Stern brought his steed over to her.
‘I’d like more men,’ he said brusquely, following her gaze.
Artheris nodded.
‘Yes, captain,’ she said. ‘This is not the mighty host the Emperor hoped for. But more will come. We are the vanguard, nothing more.’
Stern grunted, clearly unconvinced.
‘Still, more artillery would’ve been good. And I’d prefer some more knights. Not to disparage your kind, Archmage, but I don’t reckon those spearmen will stand up to a determined charge. They’ve good gear, I grant you, but a Chaos warrior is a force to be reckoned with. We need more blackpowder, and more knights.’
Artheris smiled tolerantly.
‘I agree with you,’ she said diplomatically. ‘The fame of the Reiksguard is known even in Ulthuan. But do not be too hasty to disregard my countrymen. We have been fighting the long war against Chaos for millennia. The spearmen may look fragile, but I’d vouch for each one of them.’
Stern pursed his lips. The nearest Ellyrian Reaver, who had overheard the exchange, looked on stonily.
‘I’ll take that on trust, Archmage,’ he said. ‘I’ve never fought with your sort before, and I won’t write off a man till I’ve bled alongside him. But I will say this. If you get in trouble, don’t be slow to summon the Reiksguard. The Grand Marshal has charged me personally with your protection, and I won’t forget it.’
Artheris found his concern touching, but let none of her amusement show. Like his commander Helborg, Stern was a proud man. A human, who lived for perhaps fifty years if he was lucky, could have no conception of how ephemeral his life seemed to one who had seen centuries come and go. The mightiest of them, even the Emperor, were like mayflies compared to her race. Their achievements were impressive, but they barely lived long enough to appreciate them. It took a real effort of will for Artheris to see the blunt, grave figure before her as anything other than a child. What the humans often mistook for arrogance was merely an imperfect concealment of this fact. Did they treat their own children like grown men?
‘Your offer is gratefully received,’ Artheris said warmly. ‘I’ll remember your words when battle is joined. The Grand Master is right to place his trust in you.’
Despite himself, Stern seemed to blush slightly.
‘Well, that’s that, then,’ he said, and kicked his horse ahead.
Artheris watched him return to his men with a sad expression. Stern had little idea of the extent of her powers. How could he? For all he knew, she had been wounded in Altdorf by a gang of dark elves, and was therefore no stronger than one of the humans’ own erratic wizards. The impression was not something she had expended effort to contest. How could the humans understand that her magic was of a deep and subtle kind? It couldn’t just be plucked out of the air like any village conjurer’s. But with adequate preparation, she had strength within her to shake the very elements. Her frame was slender and frail, but her spirit was vigorous and indomitable.
Still, the time of proving would come soon enough. Artheris could feel the growth of corruption as they marched. With every step, the aura of civilisation ebbed a little and the ambience of Chaos increased. They were still hundreds of miles within the borders of the Empire, but the taint ran deep. There was a presence, something tangible. Despite her long training, her profound understanding of the dark arts, she was unable to pinpoint the sensation. The corruption all around didn’t help, but there was more to it than that. It was almost as if something terrible was merely slumbering, biding its time, waiting for the moment to reveal itself.
She shuddered slightly, and realised she had grown cold in her stillness. With a whispered word, she urged her steed onwards once more. The time when all would be revealed was nearly at hand.
Jhar’zadris had watched the sun go down with satisfaction. He was no more than a day away from the temple. He was surprised he could not feel the presence of the Lord of Change more strongly. But something was definitely stirring. Grauenburg may have exaggerated, but he hadn’t lied. The Chosen was in a good mood. They had made progress. Tchar’zanek would be pleased. All was unfolding as it should.
He lay back in his tent, enjoying the sensation of the plates of his armour-flesh relaxing. Most of the army slept in the open, but his hide tent was a concession to the past. It was in the style of the nomadic tribe he had once been a member of. Now he could barely remember their name. Just dim impressions of wide, cold plains. Did he regret it? Maybe a small part of him did mourn his lost humanity. But only rarely, and it was dangerous to entertain such thoughts. The god who had chosen him was most definitely a jealous master, and there was no going back. For the most part, he gloried in his power and majesty, far beyond what any mortal of his tribe could have hoped for.
He took an ornate golden chalice from a low table beside him, and drained it in a single draught. The killing would soon begin, and his every sense anticipated it with relish.
Suddenly, there was a strange noise outside the tent entrance. Jhar’zadris rose to a seated position, intrigued. There were warriors stationed all around him, and sentries beyond them. Fires had been lit all over the camp. Surely no human had been foolish enough to try and enter?
Fresh noises rose into the night air. The clash of blades, a confused shout. Jhar’zadris was half-inclined to find out what was going on, when a woman burst into the tent, breathing heavily. She was bleeding from a gash across her cheek. Two warriors followed her inside, both with blades raised.
‘If you kill me, Chosen, you’ll regret it!’ she shouted desperately, spinning away from the killing blow of one of the warriors.
Jhar’zadris barked an order in the Dark Tongue. His warriors froze instantly, let their weapons fall, and withdrew. Their expressions remained hidden behind their iron helmets. The woman fell to her knees before him.
‘Speak quickly,’ said the Chosen with menace. ‘You are moments away from agony.’
He towered above her. She looked frail, insignificant. But then she lifted her face, and the candlelight uncovered her expression. She was a dark elf, and her exquisite features betrayed her fierce heritage. Whatever else she might be, she wasn’t frail.
‘You should train your guards better,’ she said, wiping the blood from her cheek disdainfully. ‘Three are dead.’
Jhar’zadris felt a kernel of pleasure rise within him, and decided to string this out a little. As much as killing
this druchii would give him much satisfaction, there had been the message in the entrails. Was this the one who had been promised? Perhaps it had all been ordained. Such were the ways of his master.
‘If one such as you can slip under their guard, they deserve to be dead,’ Jhar’zadris said. ‘I can live with a little wastage, but only if you have something to give me in return.’
The dark elf looked at him fearlessly. She had kept her blades exposed, and the Chosen could see that she was poised to use them. The fact amused him.
‘My service,’ she said coldly. ‘You may find a Disciple of Khaine of more use than a dozen of your lumbering warriors. But I also bring you tidings. An army is marching, led by an asur archmage. I can tell you more of her.’
Jhar’zadris felt his gurgling, rattling laugh rise up within him once more.
‘A feeble bargain!’ he sneered. ‘I have no need of warriors, and fear no elven army. You have no idea of the powers at work here. If you thought that your coming would add anything to my plans, you were mistaken. You are fleeing from something. I can see it in your aura. You may not even be aware what it is. But your doom follows you closely, dark elf.’
The druchii hissed with anger, and clutched her daggers more tightly. The Chosen could sense her wishes before she herself. Her spirit was impressive, but he had tired of her arrogance. As quick as thought, he reached forward and clutched her around the neck. Her eyes opened wide with surprise. Jhar’zadris knew he looked vast and cumbersome in his armour, but his twisted adornments had long since ceased to dampen his powers of speed. He squeezed her delicate throat with spiked fingers, enjoying the thin trickles of blood between them.
‘Your confidence is your undoing, witch,’ he hissed. ‘I may have you skinned alive and tender pieces of your heart distributed amongst my favourites while your dying eyes watch. One of my favourite activities.’
He let her go, and she crumpled to the floor, gagging.
‘You’re in luck, Disciple of Khaine,’ said Jhar’zadris coldly. ‘My master is directing things this way. Your coming has been predicted. So I am inclined to let you live.’
He rose from his low bed, the massive plates of his armour sliding over one another smoothly. The druchii looked up at him, still fearlessly, but with considerable wariness.
‘But know this,’ he hissed, placing his face directly in front of hers. ‘Your kind has a deserved reputation for treachery. I will use you. If you fail, or return my magnanimity with betrayal, your death will rise to new heights of artful pain.’
Only then did her expression register the faintest sliver of fear. She kept her gaze steady, however, and looked up into his twisted visor defiantly.
‘I will serve as promised,’ she said, her voice level. It sounded as if the words were being ripped from her unwilling lips.
Jhar’zadris sat back on the bed, keeping his eyes fixed on her at all times.
‘So you shall,’ he said. ‘Go now. Should you emerge alive from my tent, my warriors will know you have my protection. I will ask you about this elven sorcerer later. Until then, you had better hope there are no others of your kind here. The signs were vague, and if I discover you have no part in my master’s plan, your death will not be swift.’
The dark elf bowed curtly, and withdrew from the tent.
Jhar’zadris lay back, turning things over in his mind. A surprising turn. Foretold in the entrails, it was true, but surprising nonetheless. A less indulgent commander would have had her killed immediately. But after centuries of existence, he had long realised that the only true aim of life was the avoidance of boredom. She was interesting, and that had saved her life. Only fate would now tell what her role in the coming battle would be, and whether his decision had been the right one. He reached for more of the wine.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lord Heinrich looked down from his high seat. His raven hair hung to his shoulders, and his robes were of dark sable. He was not famed for his tolerance, and now his severe face was heavy with disapproval. Alexander felt his heart sinking. They had battled so hard to get to the castle, fighting through more bands of plague beasts before breaking out into the spare highlands and safety. Their welcome from the suspicious guards had been cold, and Heinrich had kept them waiting hours for an audience. Now, after so much pain and effort, it seemed as if all their efforts had been in vain.
Annika, Dieter and he stood in a line before the throne. They were in a draughty hall of bare stone within Castle Heinrich. The high windows threw a cold, clear light across them. Everything was austere, spare, utilitarian. On either side of them, groups of courtiers and soldiers watched impassively. The standard of Lord Heinrich’s personal guard hung against the wall over where he sat, listless and heavy. The device was a wolf’s head in black on a silver-grey field. Grim and forbidding, like its owner.
Morgil stood to the side, flanked by a score of Heinrich’s guards. The elf had remained with them, against all the odds. He had been taciturn and moody for the last two days, occasionally muttering something about his trail going cold. He hadn’t been keen to enter the castle, but Annika had eventually persuaded him. To have remained outside the walls in such conditions would have been foolhardy, even for a warrior such as him. Unfortunately, Heinrich’s welcome had been even harsher for the White Lion. Only Annika’s intervention had prevented him being clapped in irons. Alexander was no elf-lover, but the shabby treatment of such an evidently mighty warrior pained him.
‘So, let me see if I understand you,’ said Lord Heinrich to Alexander, his voice betraying his scorn. ‘You have news of a conspiracy against me. Someone in the Imperial order has turned to the dark powers, and our defences are in jeopardy. And yet you have no proof of this. You don’t even have a name. Nor can you tell me in what manner this treachery will reveal itself. Forgive me, Bright wizard, if I am less than impressed with your tidings.’
Alexander controlled his frustration, and kept his voice steady. After coming through so much, it was imperative something should come of it.
‘I realise I’ve not given you much to go on,’ said Alexander, apologetically. ‘I was charged with carrying detailed reports to you, concealed in an Imperial cipher. I’m ashamed to say that these were taken from me by force. I make no excuse for this. I was at fault. But since then I have walked through miles of open countryside, crawling with mutants and bandits, to deliver what news I could. In the process I’ve nearly died. Twice.’
He paused, observing the weary expression on the lord’s face. The man was used to death and struggle. Such pleading would do no good here.
‘My lord,’ said the wizard, realising his time was nearly up, ‘I still believe something can be learned from this. Whatever plans you have must be altered. They are known to the enemy. If you do nothing else, please consider revising the preparations you have made.’
Lord Heinrich looked unmoveable, as if carved from the very stone of his hall.
‘You are not a commander of men, wizard,’ he said, ‘so I shall forgive the stupidity inherent in your question. Do you have any idea of what we face? My forces are divided. Half of them are busy scouring the land of plague and infestation before it drags us all down. One of my best captains is miles away to the south crushing a rebellion that has threatened to overthrow my rule. Those forces I have left at my disposal are as subject to the plague as their kin in the fields, and only fear of what is to come keeps them from mutiny. We are short of food, and the promised help from Altdorf is nowhere to be seen. And yet this may all be solved, so you say, by changing my preparations. What, pray, would you have me do differently?’
Alexander hung his head. There was no answer. Perhaps the tidings were useless in any case. Heinrich was overstretched just trying to keep his realm together. When the Chaos armies descended, there could be no hope.
Heinrich shook his head wearily.
‘Witch hunter, what is your opinion?’ he asked.
‘My lord,’ said Annika. ‘I can’t add much to wha
t the Bright wizard has said, but it’s allied to our suspicions. We’ve revealed nothing of this until now for lack of proof, but the time has long since passed for caution. Lord Heinrich, I believe your peer Lord Grauenburg has turned to darkness. We’ve witnessed cabals on his lands, and uncovered sacrilege in a temple of Sigmar on his borders. I realise that such words seem wild and irreverent, but I beg you to heed them. On my honour as a Templar of Sigmar, I urge you not to trust this man. He will betray us all.’
When she had finished, Lord Heinrich rose from his seat. His anger was now barely contained, but when he spoke it was in a low, measured voice.
‘How dare you,’ he said icily. ‘Do you even know what you’re saying? To accuse a lord of the Empire without the slightest proof, to insinuate the most grievous of crimes without adducing a trace of evidence, this is a grave offence. If you were not a witch hunter, I’d have you thrown in the gaol.’
Alexander wondered whether he should intervene again, but suddenly there was a commotion at the far end of the hall. There was a clatter of arms outside, and the huge doors were flung open. A man in heavy armour entered and lumbered past them towards the high seat.
‘Lord Heinrich!’ he said, clearly in a state of some agitation. ‘The scouts have returned. It is as you feared. An army has been sighted in the west, and it bears the eight-pointed star.’
Lord Heinrich gave Alexander a curious look.
‘Intriguing,’ he said, slowly. ‘That such a thing should happen so soon after your arrival. You may regret coming this far to find me. We’ll have to take this up another time.’
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