by Warhammer
Now his vision seemed to hover over Ulthuan. He could see perfectly even in the darkness, and he could view those things that would be visible only to a mage. He saw the flows of magic pinioned by the watchstones that kept the island continent above the waves. Raised by elder world magic millennia ago, it needed the same magic now to prevent it sinking beneath the surface of the sea. In his dreams he had spoken to those who maintained those spells. He knew that was significant. He saw the tiny glints that were his fellow wizards working magic, the intricate structures of spells as they were woven by masters of the most magical of all the world’s peoples.
Sensing a disruption in the flows of power, he sent his consciousness racing in the direction from which it came. Far to the north he sensed the abomination that waited at the farthest pole. It pulsed with energy, no longer quiescent, promising the end of the world. Still, it had not fully woken, but yet…
Within heartbeats his spirit eyes soared over the Chaos Wastes, as close to the influence of the polar abomination as he dared go, taking in the vast hordes of black armoured warriors camped on the cold plains, and the hideous legions of horned beastmen who followed them. He saw the huge flows of Chaotic energy that the winds of magic blew over them, but he saw nothing there to cause any disturbance to his island home. All the same, it was disturbing, the size of that huge invasion force. It was larger than anything the diminished power of the elves could muster and he knew it was only a small fraction of what the dark powers were amassing.
He sent the sphere arcing through the sky towards the ancient city of Praag and saw that it was still in ruins, although its people were making valiant efforts to rebuild it. Interestingly, dwarfs were present. It seemed the ancient enemies of his own people had come to help the humans in this hour of need.
He let his eyes dwell on the massive citadel, wrapped as it was by spells that not even he could penetrate, and wondered what it was that was kept in the depths beneath that fortified pinnacle. What ancient secret brought the armies of Chaos back to this spot again and again? What ancient oaths bound the humans to rebuild their haunted city in the face of the unbreaking cycle of destruction? The speculation was interesting but it was getting him nowhere. It merely confirmed what he had heard: that the greatest invasion in centuries was taking place in the Old World, and he feared it would take more than the might of man and dwarf to repel it.
He raised his point of view higher until the curve of the sleeping world lay beneath him, the lines of power flowing through the night like an enormous web were visible to him even through the white turbulent spirals of the clouds. He inspected them closely, looking for clues, and found them. From the northern island of Albion the lines of power that would normally have flowed to Ulthuan did so weakly. Sometimes they flickered and faded. Sometimes they blazed brightly and massive pulses of energy raced out over the sea in the direction of the island continent. Out of the Chaos Wastes pulses of power rushed towards Albion and then diminished. From Albion, the flows raced onwards, rippling towards the Empire, Bretonnia, Ulthuan.
What was going on here? What magic was this? Those webs of energy dated back to the most ancient days – what could be using them for its own ends? Nothing good, he was certain. He sent the point of view of the sphere rushing towards Albion. It hurtled towards the magical barriers that surrounded the island, into the mists, and there it was stopped utterly and completely.
Not good, he thought. Albion had always been surrounded by spells of great potency intended to ward it from the eye of outsiders. Those spells obviously still held. No, he thought, that was not quite true. They felt different now. There was a subtle taint to them, of evil and something else.
Briefly he considered what he had seen, and a horrible suspicion began to grow in his mind. Fragments of certain ancient forbidden texts, written by mad elven wizards in the dawn ages of the world came back to him. Legends of the world’s most ancient gods, that talked of things best forgotten. But apparently someone had remembered them. Someone had disturbed the things that were best left untouched. Fear clutched at his heart as he considered this. He needed to consult certain ancient sources, and he needed to do so now. If what he suspected was true, there was indeed not a moment to waste.
Dawn found Teclis on the balcony outside the library, a book spread on his lap, his face resting in his hands. The old mansion built on the side of the highest hills overlooking the city of Lothern gave him a fine view of the harbour. It was flat and serene as a pond; not the slightest hint of the enormous tidal wave of his nightmares menaced it.
Briefly, he wished he was back in the tower of Hoeth, with the greatest library in the world close at hand, and his fellow mages to consult with, but that was a foolish wish. Politics had brought him here. He did not like this place, the ownership of which he shared with his brother. He had not liked it when they were children, and he did not like it now. Too many old memories, he supposed, too many recollections of long evenings of illness and infirmity. It reminded him too much of a hospice or one of those temples of euthanasia where the old and the weary of life went to end their lives in peace and comfort.
He dismissed these thoughts. Even as he did so, the earth quivered. It was very mild. The wine in his goblet merely rippled. The walls of the old palace barely quivered. It might have been a natural earthquake, but he doubted it. All the signs were clear. Something was interfering with the ancient spells that bound the island continent of Ulthuan together, that stopped it from disappearing once more beneath the waves. And if something was not done, his nightmares would come true.
Aldreth, one of his oldest servants entered. Teclis knew it was important. The old elf had orders not to disturb him for anything less than a summons from the Phoenix King himself. ‘Your brother wishes to speak with you,’ he said.
Teclis smiled sourly. There was no way of denying he was at home. This place was as much Tyrion’s as his own, and the servants were as loyal to his twin as they were to him. More loyal, he thought acidly. Of course, his brother would depart if he indicated a wish for privacy. His manners were as perfect as everything else about him. Teclis turned his gaze back to the sea. You are in a vile mood today, he told himself.
‘Show my brother in,’ he said. ‘And prepare food if he wishes it.’
‘It is a little early to be drinking that vintage,’ said Tyrion as he strode out onto the balcony. There was a hint of reproof in his voice that was equivalent to a thunderous chorus of disapproval from anyone else. Teclis looked up at his brother. So tall, so straight. The limbs so clean and so unbent, the face so honest and open. The voice as beautiful as a temple bell being rung to greet the dawn. Astonishing, he thought, that this golden creature should be my twin. It seemed that the gods had lavished all their gifts on him, and left me an ill-made thing.
‘I take it that means you won’t be joining me, brother?’
He knew he was being unfair. The gods had given him a gift for magic unequalled in this age of the world, and the will necessary to use that power as it should be used. Still, there were times when he would have gladly swapped all of that for Tyrion’s effortless popularity, his ease and courtesy, his ability to be happy even in the unhappiest of times, and his blazing good health.
‘On the contrary, it is my brotherly duty to keep you from drinking alone. The gods alone know what that might lead to.’ And there it was, the famous charm, the ability to change the mood of the situation with a smile and a seemingly thoughtless joke. Tyrion reached out for the decanter and poured himself a full goblet. There was no formality there, none of the endless empty ritual that Teclis so despised in elvish social gatherings. It was the casual gesture of the warrior more at home in camp than the Phoenix King’s court, and yet it was exactly the thing his brother knew would put him most at ease. Teclis could understand why there were those at court who compared his brother to Malekith in ancient times, before the Witch King revealed his true colours. He had known his brother all their lives, and even he was not sure how
much art went into that carefully contrived artlessness.
Tyrion waved, and Teclis looked up. On the balcony above them, Shienara and her sister, Malyria, waved back. They looked at Tyrion with the mixture of open desire and admiration he had always commanded from women. Useless, of course, as his brother had eyes only for his consort, the Everqueen. He had not, unlike most elf males, ever been unfaithful.
‘What is this early morning toast in honour of?’ Tyrion asked.
‘The end of the world,’ said Teclis.
‘That bad?’ said Tyrion.
‘The end of our world, at least.’
‘I do not think the Dark One will overcome us this time,’ said Tyrion. It was exactly what Teclis would have expected him to say, but there was a watchfulness about him now, a wariness. Suddenly he looked exactly like what he was, the deadliest elf warrior in twenty generations.
‘It is not our dear kinsman and his lackeys I am worried about, it is Ulthuan itself. Someone, or something, is tampering with the watchstones or the power that underlies them.’
‘These earthquakes and eruptions are not coincidence then? I had suspected as much.’
‘No, they are not.’
‘You will be leaving soon then.’ It was not a question. Teclis smiled as he nodded. His brother had always understood him better than any other living being.
‘Do you want some company on your journey? I am supposed to be leading the fleet northwards, to face the spawn of Naggaroth, but if what you say is true, I am sure the Phoenix King could spare my services.’
Teclis shook his head. ‘The fleet needs you. Our armies need you. Where I am going, spells will be more useful than swords.’
Teclis slammed his drink down on the fine ivory table. It almost spilled over the parchments that sat there. He had spent most of the night writing them. ‘Please see that these are copied and delivered to his majesty and the masters at Hoeth,’ he told Aldreth. ‘Now I must go. I have a long way to travel and a short time to do it in.’
CHAPTER ONE
With a heavy heart, Felix Jaeger watched the last of the remaining Kislevite warriors place the corpse of Ivan Petrovich on the pyre. The old warrior looked somehow smaller, shrunken in death. His face showed none of the peace that was supposed to belong to those who had entered the realm of Morr, God of Death, but then, Felix supposed, Ivan’s last few moments had been anything but pleasant. He had witnessed his only child, Ulrika, transformed into a vampire, a soulless blood-sucking thing, and he himself had met his death at the hand of her undead master’s minions. Felix shivered and drew his faded red Sudenland wool cloak about him. Once he had thought himself in love with Ivan’s daughter. What was he supposed to feel now?
The answer was that he did not know. Even when she had still walked among the living he had been unsure. Now, he realised, he would never really have the chance to find out. Somewhere deep within him a slow, sullen, smouldering resentment against the gods was fanned to flame. He was starting to understand how Gotrek felt.
He looked over at the Slayer. The dwarf’s brutal features were uncharacteristically thoughtful. His squat massive form, far broader than any human’s, looked out of place among the Kislevite horse soldiers. He knuckled the patch covering his ruined eye with one massive hand, then scratched his shaved and tattooed head reflectively. His great crest of red dyed hair drooped in the cold and snow. He looked up and caught Felix’s glance and shook his head. Felix guessed that in his own strange way Gotrek had liked the old march boyar. More than that, Ivan Petrovich had in some way been a link to the Slayer’s mysterious past. He had known the dwarf since the time of his first expedition to the Chaos Wastes many years before.
The thought made Felix realise just how far from home Ivan had fallen. It must be three hundred leagues at least from here in the dark forests of Sylvania to the cold lands on the edge of Kislev that he had once ruled. Of course, the old boyar’s realm was gone now, swept away by the vast Chaos invasion that had driven as far south as Praag.
‘Snorri thinks Ivan died a good death,’ said Snorri Nosebiter. He looked glum. Despite the cold, the second Slayer was no better dressed than Gotrek. Perhaps dwarfs simply did not feel discomfort like humans. More likely they were simply too stubborn to admit it. Snorri’s normally stupidly cheerful features were masked by sadness. Perhaps he was not quite so insensitive as he seemed.
‘There are no good deaths,’ Felix muttered under his breath. When he realised what he had done, he offered up a silent prayer that neither of the dwarfs had heard him. He had, after all, sworn a vow to follow Gotrek and record the Slayer’s doom in an epic poem what seemed like a lifetime ago. The dwarfs lived only to atone for some supposed sin or crime by meeting their doom at the hands of a mighty monster, or in the face of overwhelming odds.
The surviving Kislevites filed past and offered up their last respects to their former lord. Many of them made the sign of the wolf god Ulric with the fingers of their left hand, then cast a glance over their shoulder and made it again. Felix could understand that. They were still almost within the shadow of Drakenhof Castle, that mighty citadel of evil the vampire lord Adolphus Krieger had sought to make his own. He had possessed an ancient amulet and a plan to bring all the aristocracy of the night under his command. Instead he had succeeded only in bringing his own doom.
But at what cost? So many had lost their lives. There was another mass pyre nearby that the surviving Kislevites had hastily constructed for their own fallen. A second one contained the remains of the vampire’s followers. Here in the cursed land of Sylvania these men were not about to leave any corpses unburned to face a possible dark resurrection at the hands of a necromancer.
Max Schreiber strode forward, leaning on his staff, looking every inch the imposing wizard in his golden robes. Not even the bloodstains and sword rips in the clothes detracted from the man’s dignity, but there was something dead in his eyes and a bleakness to his features that matched Gotrek’s. Max had loved Ulrika, probably more than Felix ever had, and now he too had lost her forever. Felix hoped that in his grief the wizard would not do something stupid.
Max waited until the last of the Kislevites had filed past the boyar’s body, then he looked at Wulfgar, the ranking leader. The horse soldier nodded. Max spoke a word and banged the butt of his staff on the ground three times. With each strike, one of the pyres burst into flames. The sorcery was strong and obvious. Golden flames flickered into being around the damp wood and then settled on them. The nails driven into Snorri’s skull reflected the light, making it look like he had a small blaze atop his shaven head.
Slowly smoke rose, the wood blackened and then burst into more natural flame. Felix was glad of the wizard’s magic. There was no way under these conditions that even the dwarfs would have been able to light a fire.
Swiftly the fires spread and soon the sickly sweet smell of roasting flesh filled the air. Felix was not prepared to stay and watch Ivan be consumed. The man was a friend. He turned and strode out from the ruined hall into the cold air. The horses were waiting, and the wagons of the wounded. Snow covered the land. Somewhere out there was Ulrika and her new mentor, the Countess Gabriella, but they were out of his reach now.
War waited in the north. Chaos was coming, and it was there the Slayers expected to find their destiny.
The old woman looked weary. The children marching along beside her looked starved. They wore the usual rags common to Sylvanian peasantry. Their eyes were studies in hopeless misery. Beside them a few men in blood-spattered tunics grasped pitchforks in frozen fingers. Felix saw tiredness war with fear in their faces and slowly win out. They were scared of the riders and the dwarfs but they were too tired and too hungry to run.
‘What happened to you?’ asked Gotrek in a manner that was anything but reassuring. The massive axe he held in one fist made him even more threatening. ‘Why do you wander these roads in winter?’
It was a good question. Any sensible peasant would be huddling in his hovel rig
ht now. Felix already knew the answer. These were refugees.
‘Beasts came,’ said the old woman eventually. ‘Out of the woods. They burned our houses, burned the inn, burned everything, killed most and carried others off.’
‘Most likely wanted breakfast,’ said Gotrek. The expressions on the faces of the refugees told Felix that they had not needed to know that.
‘Beastmen?’ Snorri had perked up, as he always did at the prospect of a fight.
‘Aye, scores of them,’ said the old woman. ‘Came out of nowhere in the middle of winter. Who would have thought it? Maybe the zealots are right. Maybe the end of the world is coming. They say the pale lords have returned and that Drakenhof Castle is inhabited once more.’
‘That’s something you don’t need to worry about any more,’ said Felix, then wished he hadn’t. The hag was looking at him as if he were an idiot, which he supposed he was for saying such a thing. Of course, any Sylvanian peasant would worry about Drakenhof Castle and its inhabitants, no matter what some ragged stranger said.
‘You say they burned down the inn?’ said Max.
‘Aye. Killed the innkeeper and most of the guests.’
‘Snorri was looking forward to a bucket of vodka,’ said Snorri. ‘Snorri thinks those beastmen need to be taught a lesson.’
Gotrek nodded agreement. Felix had been afraid of that. The fact that there were less than a dozen unwounded Kislevite horse archers, the two Slayers, and Felix and Max to face what sounded like a mass of beastmen did not daunt either dwarf in the least. The Kislevites, hardened warriors from the march lands where human territories bordered Chaos, had sense enough to be worried, Felix could tell from their expressions.
