by Warhammer
‘No Slayer has anything to be proud of,’ said Gotrek.
‘As you say,’ said the stranger, although his jocular tone implied that he did not quite believe it. ‘Let all here bear witness that, I, Villem, of the House of Kozinski, am grateful to you for your bravery, and would see it rewarded.’
‘The only reward I require is a place in the forefront of the coming battle.’
‘That should be easy enough to arrange, my friend.’
Felix prayed that the Slayer would not make some sort of sarcastic remark. After all, this was no mere noble; Gotrek was halfway to picking a fight with the brother of the ruling duke.
‘I shall make sure my brother and liege hears of your brave deeds.’
‘Thank you, milord,’ Felix said.
‘No, it is I who should thank you. You are an Empire man. Not many would come all this way to fight and perhaps die in defence of our lands. Such bravery should be rewarded.’
Felix looked up at him. Villem seemed a fair-spoken and pleasant-looking young man, but Felix had learned to mistrust noblemen, no matter how polite they were. Now did not seem like a good time to say this, however. Rumour had it that Villem could be a particularly unpleasant enemy.
‘All we wanted was a good fight,’ Gotrek said, disgruntled. ‘And one thing’s certain. We didn’t get it here.’
‘Wait a few more days, my friend,’ said Villem. ‘Then the fighting will be as hot and hard as any could wish, even a Slayer.’ The noble’s entourage nodded their agreement. Felix saw no reason to doubt his words either. Gotrek merely spat on the ground and glared into the distance, looking at the plumes of smoke rising on the horizon.
‘Bring them on,’ he said.
Villem laughed easily. ‘It is good that at least one warrior in the city is keen to face the foe,’ he said. ‘You are an inspiration to us all, Gotrek, son of Gurni.’
‘Just what I’ve always wanted,’ Gotrek said sourly. If he noticed the barbed glances of the nobleman’s lackeys, he gave no sign. The Slayer barely showed any respect for the rulers of his own people; he showed none whatsoever for humans.
Felix wondered whether this was a trait that was going to get them both killed one day. He felt like apologising for the Slayer’s attitude but he knew that Gotrek would more than likely just contradict him anyway, so he kept his mouth shut and prayed that Villem was as tolerant as he appeared to be.
The nobleman gave no sign of taking offence, which was good, Felix decided, considering there were thousands of soldiers sworn to the defence of his person and city within easy call.
‘I must go now, but you will be welcome at the palace, should you decide to visit,’ he said, sweeping away.
‘That’s an invitation I will be sure to take up,’ Gotrek muttered sarcastically to his departing back.
One of the advisors turned and glared at him. There was murder in the man’s eyes.
I wonder who will kill us quicker, Felix thought, the Kislevites or the Chaos worshippers?
TWO
The White Boar was crowded. The air stank of beer, stale sweat and pipeweed smoke. The bellowed conversation of drunks and the boasting of newly arrived warriors threatened to deafen Felix. He was not complaining. Right at this moment, he needed the cheery warmth of the tavern to help him forget the sight of the Chaos warriors. In some ways they were even more frightening in retrospect than they had been at the time.
He could not deny to himself that they were there now, outside the city. He had seen them, fought them. It was one thing to imagine their presence, to know that soon you would have to fight them. It was another thing entirely to know with certainty that a vast army of the evil warriors was approaching the city.
He glanced around wondering if Ulrika were present. Part of him hoped that she was not. Recently they had returned to their old pattern of fighting bitterly and making up passionately. The making up was just fine, but Felix felt like he could live without the conflicts. There was going to be enough of that in his life soon anyway, without it being present in his love life. Right now, all he wanted was some peace and quiet before the inevitable storm.
At the same time, part of him was disappointed that she was not there. Was she with Max again, he wondered? And if so, was this just some attempt to make him jealous or was there something more serious going on? He smiled ruefully. If it was the former, he had to admit that it was working. On the other hand, he could not really say that was what she was doing. Ulrika was not particularly guileful. Still, she was a woman, and Felix sometimes thought that women did these things almost by instinct. Now was not the time for worrying about it, he decided. Now was the time for drinking.
As he had suspected, Snorri Nosebiter and the other dwarfs were present, and all of them looked far from sober. It was quite possible they had been drinking ever since they got up this morning. Dwarfs took beer the way fish took water. Snorri was a massive dwarf, even more frightening-looking than Gotrek. His nose had been broken and reset countless times, and one of his ears had been ripped clean off. His head was shaven and three painted nails had been driven right into his skull. Felix wasn’t sure how this had been done without infection setting in, but it had. Right at this moment, Snorri was arm wrestling with another dwarf Slayer and it looked as if he was winning.
Snorri’s opponent was a young dwarf who seemed to shout rather than speak. His head was completely shaved to show his new tattoos and his beard had been clipped so close there was only stubble. Felix doubted that Ulli’s had ever been very long anyway. He could probably grow a better beard himself.
Nearby another Slayer, quite possibly the ugliest dwarf Felix had ever seen, bounced a tavern wench upon his knees, apparently unaware that all the men and not a few of the dwarfs were glaring at him. Felix was amazed that the girl would even touch someone so repulsive. Bjorni had a truly gruesome collection of warts on his face, and together with his missing teeth they made him as repellent as any gargoyle. Noticing that Felix was looking at him, he gave him a wink and a leer and then placed his head between the bargirl’s breasts and rubbed his beard backwards and forwards. She giggled. Felix looked away. Bjorni was incorrigible.
Looking around, Felix could see a group of massive men, armoured in heavy plate, with cloaks of white wolfskin hanging around their shoulders. They sat at their own table and bellowed drinking songs as they threw back jack after jack of ale. One of them caught Felix’s eye and glared at him. Felix shrugged and looked away. He was no keener on White Wolf templars than they were on anybody who did not follow Ulric. A bunch of fanatic bigots, was Felix’s opinion, but he knew enough to keep it to himself. Nasty as they might be, they were deadly warriors, and with the huge Chaos army approaching every blade was going to be needed. He could not afford to be too choosy about the men he fought alongside. Hopefully, they would soon come to the same realisation.
There were many others present: Kislevite horse soldiers, mercenaries from all over the Empire and beyond. He thought he heard the babble of Tilean voices and the slurred accent of Bretonnia. It seemed that there were warriors present from all over the Old World. He wondered how they had got here so quickly. It hardly seemed possible that the rumour of war had reached the Empire, and yet…
He told himself not to be so foolish. These men had not come here because of the invasion. They had come because this was the wild frontier and there was always work for hired blades so close to the Chaos Wastes. Most of them were probably caravan guards or attached to the private armies of some Kislevite noble. Looking across at one haughty, well-dressed man surrounded by burly thugs, Felix felt sure that some of them were bodyguards to travelling nobles from his own land. Why were they here, he wondered? Who knew? There were always wealthy men who liked to travel and scholars and mages in search of new knowledge. Most of them came from the ruling classes. Who else had the money to pursue such interests? He tried to dismiss the idea that some of these men could be spies for the Chaos cults. He knew that it was all too likely, but he
did not want to deal with the thought right now.
Eventually, just when he had about given up, he saw the face he wanted to see. Ulrika Magdova entered the tavern, her face a mask of worry. Even so she was still beautiful. Tall, slender yet as strong as steel, her ash blonde hair cut short. Her clear blue eyes fixed on his own and she gave him a tight-lipped smile. Ignoring the leers of the mercenaries she walked straight over to him. He took her hand and pulled her to him, feeling only the slightest resistance. Not a good sign. Ulrika was one of the most unpredictable women he had ever met, hard when he expected her to be soft, soft when he thought she would be hard. He had almost given up trying to understand her, but at least, at this moment, he thought he had some idea of what troubled her.
‘Still no word?’ he enquired, using as gentle a tone as he could muster.
‘None,’ she said in a voice that was flat and purposefully devoid of emotion. He knew that she had been doing the rounds of the guardhouses and taverns, and various noble relatives, hoping for some word of her father. She had not seen or heard from Ivan Petrovich Straghov since they had boarded the Spirit of Grungni and headed south. It was not a good sign. Even allowing for the vast distances that separated the Marchlands from Praag, the old boyar should have been here by now. Unless something terrible had happened.
‘I am sure he is all right,’ Felix said. He tried to make his tone comforting. ‘He is a hardy man, and he had over fifty lancers with him. He will make it through if anyone can.’
‘I know. I know. It’s just… I have heard what the outriders have been saying about the size of the Chaos army. They liken it to a plague of locusts. No force such as this has emerged from the Wastes in two centuries. This one may be even larger than the one that faced Magnus the Pious and Tzar Alexander.’
‘That will just make it easier to avoid.’
‘You don’t know my father, Felix. He is not a man to run from a fight. He may have done something foolish.’ She glanced around, tight-lipped. He sat down on the nearest chair, put his arm around her waist and drew her down onto his knee.
‘I am sure he would not. Have a drink. That might help calm your nerves.’
She gave him an angry glare. ‘You have been drinking too much since we got here.’
It was the old argument. She always brought it up. Compared to most of the people they travelled with, he hardly drank at all. Of course, most of them were dwarfs, so perhaps that did not mean too much.
‘Well, I have not been drinking today,’ he said. ‘I have been at the Gate of Gargoyles, fighting.’
She looked at him slantwise. ‘I saw wounded being taken from there to the Temple of Shallya for healing. They say a thousand Chaos warriors attacked.’
‘More like twenty. Outriders. The horde has not arrived yet.’ Felix raised his hand and gestured for a barmaid. The woman sauntered over and put down two jacks of ale on the table without being asked, then moved on. Felix lifted his to his lips and took a sip. It tasted sour compared to what he was used to. Goat’s water, Snorri called it. Felix suspected that he knew enough to make the comparison exact. Snorri would drink anything.
Ulrika lifted a jack and slugged some back herself. He would never quite get used to this. Kislevite noblewomen drank as hard as any of their menfolk. When they drank at all.
‘You were at the gate?’ a man asked from the next table.
‘Yes,’ Felix replied.
‘They say you could see the army of Darkness from the gate. They say it is ten thousand strong. Twice ten thousand strong.’ The man was drunk and rambling.
‘It does not matter,’ said a swarthy man with the drooping moustaches of a Kislevite horse soldier. ‘They will break against the walls of Praag as they did two hundred years ago!’
That brought a roar of approval from the surrounding tables. This was the sort of talk men liked to hear in taverns on the night before a battle. Felix had seen too many real battles to think it would be like the books and poems he had read as a lad. On the other hand, these men looked the same, and still they talked as if they were in a story. Maybe they were just whistling in the dark. Maybe just trying to keep their spirits up. If they had seen what Felix had seen flying back from the Chaos Wastes they would not sound so cheery at this moment. He tried to push those depressing thoughts aside.
‘I don’t know,’ a thin weasel-faced man said from the doorway. ‘My caravan just got in, and we faced beastmen and Chaos riders on the way here. They were tough. Even if they were Chaos spawn they were tough. Never seen anything that died so hard as those beastmen.’
Felix was inclined to believe it. A glance at Ulrika told him so was she, but the warriors in the tavern wanted none of it.
‘What sort of Chaos-loving talk is that?’ a huge, fat man demanded, slamming a chicken leg down on the tabletop. ‘Beastmen and Chaos riders die just as quick as any other living thing – if you stick two feet of good Imperial steel in them!’
More roars of approval. More laughter. More boasts about how many of the enemy were going to die in the days to come. More talk of how they would all be heroes in the song of the siege of Praag. Felix looked around again. He could see that there were plenty who disagreed with these sentiments. Many men looked worried, and they were the sort of men who looked as if they knew there was something to be worried about. Hard-faced men, wearing well-worn armour and carrying weapons they appeared to know how to use. Felix knew that the sort of boasting he was hearing was stupid, but he did not want to contradict it. He did not want to be the one to bring the spirits of all these people down. The weasel-faced man was apparently having second thoughts too. A city soon to be under siege by the powers of Darkness was no place to be suspected of being a Chaos worshipper.
‘Aye, you’re right,’ he said. ‘They died quick enough when me and my boys stuck steel in them.’ Even so he still could not manage to get much enthusiasm into his voice. Felix looked at him sympathetically. It was obvious this man had faced beastmen before and knew what he was talking about. It was just that no one wanted to listen. By the way Ulrika was shaking her head, he could tell that she agreed with the weasel-faced man.
‘Soft southerners don’t know what they are talking about,’ she muttered. ‘A gor would eat that fat pig like he’s gobbling down that chicken.’
Felix smiled sourly. For him the folk of Kislev were a byword for hardiness, a people who lived in a dangerous land of constant warfare. It never occurred to him that they might look down on each other. Of course, Ulrika had grown up on the northern marches, the very boundary of human territory and Chaos. If anyone in this room knew about such things it was her. She rose smoothly from his knee. ‘I am going upstairs. To our room.’
Her tone made it obvious that he was supposed to follow. Under the circumstances, given a choice between doing that and staying downstairs to listen to this chatter of war, it seemed like the sensible thing to do.
Ivan Petrovich Straghov stared off into the distance. He was a big man and he had once been fat. The past few weeks had burned most of that off him. They had been weeks spent in the saddle, snatching sleep and meals where he could, fighting desperate battles against overwhelming numbers of beastmen, and retreating at the last second so that he could fight another day. He tried to tell himself he was harrying the flanks of the Chaos army, slowing its advance, giving its generals something to worry about to their rear. He suspected that his attacks worried that mighty force the way a flea’s bites worried a mastodon.
He rubbed the bandage around his head. The wound itched again. He supposed he had nothing to complain about. If the beastman had been just a fraction stronger or his parry just a split second slower, his brains would have been decorating the monster’s axe. The healing salves seemed to have done their work though, and there appeared to be no infection. He felt a bit feverish sometimes, that was all.
He glanced around at his riders. Thirty men, all veterans. He had started out with over fifty, survivors of the skaven attack on his mansion, and h
e had gathered over a hundred lancers more on the ride south. He had sent fifty to escort the women and wagons, heading south-west away from the main track to Praag. Hopefully that way some of his people would escape the advance of the horde. The rest he had led into battle, harrying the invaders in the time-honoured Kislevite fashion. Hit and run raids, savage night attacks, swift ambushes. His men had done well. They must have killed well over three times the number of casualties they had taken, but it was not enough. It was a drop of water in that great ocean of Chaos filth. The Wastes must be emptied, he thought. Who would have guessed so many could dwell in that pitiless land?
Like all his people, he had studied the old records of the ancient wars against Chaos. He knew the ballads and epic poems by heart. The Deed of Magnus had spoken of an army as numberless as the blades of grass on the great northern plain. He had always thought the poets had exaggerated. Now, he suspected that perhaps they had underestimated.
You’re getting old, he told himself, to let such thoughts fill your head when you have a horse beneath you, a lance in your hand and a foe before you. There could be no such defeatist thoughts now. Too many men depended on him. He glanced around, and saw determination on every face. He was proud. These were not men who would give up. He knew they would follow him to the gates of hell itself if he asked. They were a finely honed blade. All he needed to do was wield them well, point them in the right direction, and they would do what he asked or die trying. Most likely the latter. He pushed that thought aside.
He was glad Ulrika was not here. He hoped she was somewhere safe now. He hoped she had delivered his warning to the Ice Queen and had sense enough to remain behind in the capital. Most likely not though. She had always been wilful, just like her mother, and, if he was honest, just like him. She had most likely followed that young Felix Jaeger, and since he followed Gotrek Gurnisson that meant she had most likely marched straight into trouble again. All he could do was pray to the gods to watch over her and hope Ulric was not too busy to listen to an old man’s prayers.