by Warhammer
Ahead of them, Max and Snorri were barely visible, and the riders were but dim shadows in the snowfall. Felix wondered how the scouts would ever find their way back through this grim weather but somehow they did. He supposed they were used to weather like this coming from the wilds of Northern Kislev. They had sneered at Felix’s claims concerning how cold it was, saying that this was like spring compared to the weather back home. Felix was unsure whether they were kidding him or not. He suspected they were not.
Certainly, they had shown an uncanny aptitude for finding and building shelter. Last night Ivan Petrovich had even showed them how to build a little circular house from snow and ice. It had proven surprisingly warm once they were inside, certainly more comfortable and less drafty than the tents had been.
Their progress was slow though. Moving across this part of Kislev as winter’s grip tightened was a nightmare. Had it not been for his concern over Ulrika, Felix would have begged them to turn back. He was fed up with the unending chill, the biting wind and the distant howling of wolves. They reminded him only too well of his encounter with the Arisen of Ulric under similar circumstances back in the Empire. Three days of this was more than enough for one lifetime. He knew though that he would have to endure much more. According to Max there was at least a hundred leagues between them and the talisman, and it had not stopped moving.
There were times moving through these white wastes when Felix felt the sheer futility of what they were doing. It was a kind of madness to chase after a magician with such a long head start through this dismal chilling landscape, in the faint hope that they might find Ulrika alive.
At least that was what he and Max were doing. He was certain that Gotrek and Snorri and Ivan would follow this Krieger to the ends of the earth now, for vengeance if she was killed or, in the case of the Slayers, simply to fulfil the oaths they had sworn.
There were a few small mercies to thank Sigmar for. So far they had not encountered any beastmen or Chaos warriors. From the airship the landscape seemed to have been teeming with them, but on the ground things were different. The speed of the Spirit of Grungni had been deceptive. On the ground, you came to realise just how vast and empty a land Kislev was, and quite how much distance really separated the various forces.
He wondered what was going to happen afterwards, if they did overhaul Krieger and reclaim Ulrika. The danger was not past. The winter had merely slowed down the great Chaos invasion and prevented almost any movement at all on the human side. Once the spring came, it would be total war on a scale the world had not seen for two centuries. Maybe trying to save a single woman in the midst of all this was futile. Perhaps they would all be dead soon anyway. At Praag they had succeeded only in slowing down and defeating one small part of an immense army. The forces of Chaos seemed limitless, and their daemonic masters did not care how many lives they expended in the pursuit of their goals. In the face of such opposition, it sometimes seemed inevitable to Felix that they would be defeated, and the world would end in fire and ruin.
But what could he do? Only what he saw best. And to tell the truth he would not mind a little fire right now, even if he could live without the ruin. Poor as the joke was, it cheered him up a little, for a few minutes until the cold started to sink into his bones again and his hacking cough returned.
It had been a village until quite recently. Now, the few stone buildings were soot-blackened rubble. The wooden palisade had left a few charred stumps rising above the snow. The evidence of human habitation had been buried beneath the drifts, along with most of the corpses. Felix felt guilty, as if somehow his thoughts of a few minutes ago had brought this into being. Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself, this place was destroyed days ago. Still, the feeling stayed with him and added to his gloom.
‘Look at this,’ said Marek, the tracker. He brandished something long and white and mottled with brown. Felix joined Gotrek as he stamped over. Ivan Petrovich was already there. Flakes of snow drifted down from the sky. All around the rolling plain was silent save for the eerie sweep of the wind.
‘What is it?’ Felix asked.
‘Human bone,’ said Gotrek, glancing at the thing in Marek’s hand.
‘A thigh bone,’ said Marek. He had a long thin thoughtful face, and he rarely spoke more than he had to. ‘Part of one, at least. Broken for marrow.’
‘Wolves?’ asked Felix hopefully. As soon as the words had left Marek’s lips other, more horrible possibilities had entered his mind, but he did not want to be the one to voice them. Wolves did not attack fortified villages and burn them to the ground.
‘Nah, this was split lengthways, and the break’s not made by wolf teeth. Men or things like men did this.’
‘Beastman work,’ boomed Ivan Petrovich. ‘I’ve seen enough like it up along the marches to recognise it.’
‘They must have got hungry and stopped for a snack on their long march,’ said Gotrek. His scowl was ferocious. He loathed beastmen.
Max came over and joined them. He moved slowly as if still husbanding his strength. A huge bearskin robe covered his thick woollen robes. His gloved hands clutched his staff.
‘Do you think Ulrika and Krieger might have been here when the attack came?’ Felix asked, voicing a question that was in all their minds.
Max shook his head. ‘The talisman is still on the move.’
‘The beastmen might have it,’ said Felix sourly.
Max glanced at him coldly. ‘There is no residue of magic about this place. If it were attacked, Krieger would surely have summoned the dark to defend himself. If he had I would know. I do not think he was here when this happened.’ He sounded so certain that Felix let the matter drop. Perhaps he just did not want to acknowledge any other possibility.
‘Do you think the beastmen are still about?’ Felix asked, casting a nervous glance about them.
‘No. This is two days old. They’re long gone,’ said Marek.
‘Pity,’ muttered Gotrek running his thumb along the blade of his axe till a drop of bright blood was drawn.
‘Do not fear, Gotrek Gurnisson. There will be plenty of work for your axe before we’re done. All the hordes of hell are on the move this winter.’
‘Bring them on,’ said Gotrek, gazing bleakly out into the woods. ‘Some exercise will help ward off the chill.’
From out of night and distance, Adolphus heard the howls: wolves, baying in pursuit of prey. His little caravan was the prey. Normally, the beasts would not have given them the slightest trouble, but there were other voices mingled with those of the wolves: goblins, wolf riders. The greenskins must be desperate, he thought, to come so far into the lands of men this winter. No doubt they had been displaced from their homelands by the southward drift of the Chaos horde. Not just men were running before it like deer before the beaters. Well, let them come on; they would soon learn the folly of attacking him.
Ulrika’s blood filled him with its sweetness. It left a warm glow in him like fine wine once had. He had heard that some of the Arisen drank down the memories and emotions of those they tapped but he had never experienced anything like that himself until now. It seemed some of the girl’s fire had found its way from her veins into his. It was an odd feeling but not unpleasant. The girl herself lay asleep and drained on the leather seat, a satiated smile on her face. Adolphus knew that look from other times and other feedings; she would be asleep for hours. He could sense some of her emotions now. The blood bond between them was growing.
The sledge shuddered to a halt. There was a tap on the window and Roche’s ugly face appeared, as pockmarked as the face of the greater moon. ‘It seems we are pursued, master,’ he said as calmly as if there had not been half a hundred hungry greenskins on their trail. ‘Do you wish me to drive or tell the others to make ready to fight?’
‘I do not believe there will be any need for a fight, Roche,’ said Adolphus. ‘I doubt the wolves will attack us. I have an understanding with their kind.’
He opened the door and stepped
down into the chill night air. He did not feel the cold the way he had once done, and he found the wind’s chill bite refreshing. All around them snow blanketed the trees. He had always liked snow. It was the colour of bone, of blank paper. It spoke to him of innocence and fresh starts. Osrik and the other nobles gazed worriedly at him from the windows of their own sleds. The surviving bodyguards looked as if they could not decide quite whether to make ready to fight or to run. Adolphus favoured them with a smile that he guessed they would find in no way reassuring. ‘Don’t worry, my brave friends,’ he said. ‘I will protect you.’
He strode back along their trail, until he stood between the small circle of sleds and their oncoming pursuers. He inspected his nails while he waited. There was just the faintest of pink flushes beneath them from the blood he had just drank.
The baying was coming closer. The sound was lonely, even coming from the throats of a pack, and it spoke to him. Despite what he had said to Ulrika about dogs and poetry, he felt that there was a bond between him and the creatures. They both understood the loneliness of the predator. He shook his head. Such thoughts had no place in his mind at a time like this. It must be the girl’s blood, or the presence of the talisman.
Suddenly the pack erupted from the woods, snow fountaining behind them as they ran. Huge creatures, larger than normal wolves by far, white furred for the winter, red eyes burning with fierce hunger. They were beautiful creatures, but their riders were not.
They were smaller than men, perhaps the size of a big ten year-old boy, green-skinned, and wrapped in the thickest of furs and clothes that looked like old chequered coloured rags. Their mouths were filled with huge, sharp snaggly teeth. Their eyes were yellow and the size of saucers, and Adolphus knew they could see in the dark almost as well as he. Their arms were long in proportion to their bodies, perhaps half as long again as human arms. In their huge gnarled hands they clutched spears and bows and scimitars. Adolphus strode confidently towards them.
This took them aback. It was not what they were expecting. One of the goblins, larger and more ugly than the rest, raised his paw and the line of riders came to a ragged halt. A rider took aim with his short bow and loosed an arrow. Adolphus stepped to one side and let it pass by so that it thunked into the side of the coach behind him. He doubted that the stone-tipped arrows could harm him, but they would smart, and Adolphus was no more fond of pain than anyone else. The leader turned and glared at the smaller goblin who had shot. Sensing Adolphus’s approach and catching his scent on the wind, the wolves began to snarl and slink alternately. The leader of the pack, a massive beast, glared at him with eyes that matched the goblin chieftain’s for fury.
Adolphus stopped twenty paces away from the goblins. By now, he knew Roche would have unlimbered his crossbow behind him and have taken a bead on the leader. It would not be necessary but he supposed it gave his servant something to do. He doubted that the bodyguards would be much use if it came to a fight but he did not care. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword and surveyed the wolf riders contemptuously. They shifted uneasily in their saddles, not sure of what they were dealing with now, but knowing it was well outside the ambit of their usual experience.
‘Go now and I will let you live. Stay and you will surely die,’ Adolphus told them confidently, eyeing the leader directly. He felt the connection as their eyes met and the battle of wills began. The goblin was fierce, stupid, ambitious, and did not like being balked. The contest was far from being one-sided.
The rest of the riders brandished their weapons and howled challenges and jeers in their crude guttural tongue. He doubted very much whether they understood a fraction of what he had said. It was just their nature to behave this way. The leader looked at him, clearly uncertain what was going on. He sensed the presence of magic, and it unnerved him. And his anger was turning to fear.
‘Kill magic man,’ he shouted then bellowed orders in his own speech. The wolves snarled, and crouched to spring. The goblins couched their lances, and raised their scimitars. Adolphus shrugged. It had been a slim hope but it had been worth trying. Now he would have to use his alternative plan.
His gaze flashed over the wolves, and he let them see the beast that dwelled within him, let them know they were in the presence of a predator far more dangerous than they. The change was immediate. The wolves’ hackles rose and they cringed like beaten curs – their tails drooped between their legs, their mouths hung open and their tongues lolled out. Their riders’ battle cries dropped to feeble protests of dismay. Adolphus reached for the dark magical energy that filled the night and projected his will onto the animals. Perhaps it was his imagination but it seemed easier now that he had the Eye. He sensed momentary resistance from the animals but his will was too strong. In moments, the beasts were his to command and he drove his orders directly into their minds.
Almost as one they reared and bucked, throwing their riders from the saddle and pouncing on them to rip their throats. It took long moments for the goblins to get over their surprise and realise what was happening. By that time, over half of them were dead.
They were not going to go down without a fight. Some of them managed to stay in the saddle. Adolphus saw the chieftain reach forward and slash his mount’s throat with a dagger. Wolf blood crimsoned the snow. The chieftain rolled clear of the saddle and came racing at Adolphus, dagger dripping red. Adolphus almost smiled at his foolish bravery.
He strode forward to meet the creature, not even drawing his sword. As he met the goblin he sidestepped and got his arm round his throat. With a single twist, he snapped the chieftain’s neck. Vertebrae ground. Something wet and sticky flopped down the goblin’s leg into the snow. He raised the corpse above his head and tossed at another struggling rider.
A crossbow bolt flashed past him and took another goblin through the throat. He could hear the bodyguards begin to advance towards the melee now that it appeared won. It was all too much for the greenskins. Within heartbeats the survivors had turned and fled, only to be run down by their own mounts. Within a minute the snow was awash with yellowy-green blood, and all the goblins were dead.
Adolphus gave the wolves permission to feed. They fell to with a will. Obviously the winter had been hard and their former masters had not fed them well. He turned and strolled back to the coach. Roche watched him expressionlessly. His coven gazed on him with expressions somewhere between worship and terror. Fear blazed in the eyes of the bodyguards as they parted to let him through.
‘When we move on,’ said Adolphus, ‘I believe we will have an escort.’
‘Very good, master,’ said Roche. ‘I shall wait for your new followers to finish their repast.’
‘I don’t like the look of this at all,’ said Max Schreiber. ‘These tracks are unnatural.’
Felix felt a deep-seated unease. The woods were thick and dark all around them, the trees frosted with white flakes. Ahead of them the snow had been churned as if a large number of men or other things had passed this way quite recently. Felix seriously doubted that any sane or honest man would be abroad in this weather without some overwhelmingly important reason. As the cold intensified and the weather became grimmer and grimmer, he himself found the thought of giving up becoming ever more appealing.
It was not that he did not want to save Ulrika. It was just that the more time passed, the less chance there seemed to be that she was still alive. Swearing to avenge her was all very well, but men frozen to death in the snow, or losing their limbs to frostbite were not very likely to avenge anyone.
For the moment, Felix was keeping these thoughts to himself. They were not likely to find much favour with the Slayers, Max or Ulrika’s father. There were times when they did not find much favour with him. They sometimes left him disgusted with himself, but more and more often recently they had been creeping into his mind. He knew he was ill; the flux had returned with a vengeance. He hoped he was not going to go down with pneumonia.
He tried telling himself that no hero in the stories
he had read as a boy ever gave up just because he was cold, hungry, had a splitting headache or the thought of eating another mouthful of beef jerky left him feeling nauseous. But as the days had drawn out, he had found it was just these things that left him feeling the most discouraged.
The threat of violence Felix could deal with. While he was not completely enamoured with the idea of facing physical danger, he knew he had done it in the past and acquitted himself well. It was the little things that were slowly but surely wearing him down and out: the way his lips were cracked, the way his belly rumbled, the constant pain in his temples from the flu that never quite went away no matter how often Max healed it or gave him herbal infusions. He was just feeling strung out, as if his vitality were being leeched away by the spirits of the winter woods. Sometimes he thought that if they did overtake Krieger he would be too weary to fight him.
He found that it took an effort of will to conjure the image of Ulrika to his mind now, to imagine her in peril. It was alarming. You thought you loved her. No, you did love her, and yet now you are seriously considering abandoning her. This was another area he had discovered where things were not quite like the storybooks. There all the heroes dared everything to rescue their loved ones. They blazed with unquenchable passion and utter certainty. They never suffered from doubts or wondered whether they really were in love at all.
Such feelings were all too common for him. Sometimes when he was hungry or tired or hungover or scared, he could easily forget that he loved her. He could easily remember all the times she had hurt him, or snubbed him or told him he was foolish. All the little resentments he harboured crowded into his brain and clamoured for his attention. Detlef Sierck had never bothered to mention any of this in his plays. He wondered if he were the only man on the face of the earth who felt like this. Somehow he doubted it.