I
THE FIRST SNOW broke over Kislev as dusk drew in on Mittherbst, a day sacred to Ulric, the god of battle and winter. The priests of Ulric rejoiced as the first flakes drifted from the leaden sky, proclaiming that the favour of the wolf god was with them. Others were less certain: the snows and plummeting temperatures were certain to cause great misery and suffering amongst the thousands of refugees filling the city and dwelling in the sprawling canvas camps beyond its walls.
Daily, the stream of refugees from the north grew until the Tzarina was forced to order the gates of the city shut. Kislev simply could not contain any more people. With the practicality common to the Kislevite peasantry, many of the refugees simply decided to continue south towards the Empire, desperate to put as much distance between themselves and the threat of annihilation. Others formed whatever shelters their meagre belongings allowed them and camped around the walls beside the enclaves of Empire and Kislev soldiery.
As the numbers of people grew, the name of the monster that had driven them from their homes came to be heard more and more. Beginning as a low murmur on the fringes of fire-lit conversations and growing in the telling to assume terrifying proportions, the beast's name took on a power all of its own. Tales abounded of stanistas burned to the ground, women and children put to the sword. All manner of atrocities were attributed to the monster and as each day passed, more and more tales of this barbarian spread from campfire to campfire.
It was said that his warriors had cut open the bellies of every living soul in the Ramaejk stanista and impaled them on the sharpened pine logs of their defensive wall. Carrion birds had feasted on the still-living bodies for days and the macabre scene had been left as a monument to the triumph of the monster.
Who had first given voice to the monster's name was a mystery. Perhaps it was not a name at all, but a misheard battle cry, or a cursed talisman to be passed on by those he spared that they might carry the terror of his name and deeds southwards.
However it came to be spoken, the name of Aelfric Cyenwulf, high chieftain of the northern tribes and favoured lieutenant of the dread Archaon himself, had come to Kislev. War-chiefs of the Kurgan were nothing new and the oldest men and women of the steppe knew of many bloodthirsty barbarian leaders who had come and gone. They knew that northern tribes had raided their land before, but even they understood that this time was different.
This time the tribes did not come for plunder, this time they came to destroy.
II
KASPAR WATCHED THE snow falling from the darkening sky with a mixture of apprehension and relief on the sawtoothed ramparts of the city walls. The snows would slow an army and would, in all likelihood, force it to retreat to its winter quarters or face destruction as its warriors starved and froze to death.
Though the snowfall was light, Kaspar knew that the achingly cold Kislevite winter could be little more than a couple of weeks away at best. It would grip the nation in its frozen embrace and bury the landscape in an endless blanket of snow. The Kislevites called this time 'Raspotitsa', which meant roadlessness, and travel became virtually impossible as every trail and road was hidden beneath the snows.
He turned from the walls and the twisting columns of smoke caught in the harsh winds that blew off the northern oblast. Hundreds of small fires burned from the campsites before the walls as people huddled around them for warmth. The most vulnerable people were already dying, the elderly and the newborn unable to survive the bitter cold and lack of food. The soldiers camped nearby fared little better, bereft of supplies and news from home, their morale was virtually non-existent.
Kaspar knew that it was the simple things in life that kept a soldier well motivated and in high spirits. A rousing speech from a leader might put a fire in his heart, but a warm meal and a drop of alcohol would be far more appreciated. So far, the soldiers of the Empire had neither, though Kaspar was about to remedy that.
He watched as a convoy of fifteen long riverboats plied their stately passage along the Urskoy, sliding through the dark waters towards the portcullis of the western river gate. Boatmen lowered sails on the lead boat as it was swallowed by the shadow of the high walls. Kaspar saw the vessels name painted on her hull, just above the waterline and followed its progress as it emerged from the water gate and made its way upriver to the docks.
Pavel Korovic and Kurt Bremen climbed the steps to join him on the ramparts.
'Is that them?' asked Bremen.
Kaspar nodded. 'Aye, the lead boat is Scheerlagen's Maiden, that's them. Are your men ready?'
'We are,' promised Bremen.
'Then let's go,' said Kaspar.
III
THEY FOLLOWED THE riverboats as they made their way towards the main docks of the city. Kaspar was no sailor, having learned to loathe any form of sea travel as a young man, but even he could tell every boat was running dangerously overfull, the slow waters of the river close to spilling over their gunwales. Several times they lost sight of the convoy as they were forced into frustrating detours to avoid streets choked with people, but it was always easy to find again as the river was empty of traffic, most captains already having taken their boats south to join the Talabec and carry onwards to Altdorf or Nuln.
Passers-by gave them curious looks, a man of obvious quality riding with a bearded Kislevite on a struggling, sway-backed dray horse and accompanied by a group of sixteen knights in gleaming plate armour. The crew of the riverboats did not long remain oblivious to their presence either, shouting over to them with loud ahoys.
Kaspar and the knights ignored them, but Pavel shouted over.
'What news from south?'
'Wolfenburg is no more,' shouted back a sailor.
'A great storm destroyed it,' shouted another. 'Dark magicks they say!'
Kaspar let Pavel converse with the men on the boats, too focussed on the task at hand to bother swapping banter with men he might soon have to confront. He had been waiting for the convoy led by Scheerlagen's Maiden since receiving letters from Altdorf four days ago.
Emblazoned with the crest of the Second House of Wilhelm and that of the Imperial Commissariat, the letters demanded to know what actions had been taken to prevent further depredations on their wares. Kaspar had no idea what the letters referred to until he spent a gruelling day examining the records kept by the former ambassador. Taken together, he now knew why the Empire regiments in Kislev were starving and why the grain houses of the city were under so much strain. It also went some way to explaining why the ruler of Kislev had met his requests for an audience thus far with nothing but bureaucratic brick walls and polite rebuffs.
Supplies were, it seemed, arriving in Kislev, they just weren't getting to their intended recipients. For the last twelve months, a merchant from Hochland named Matthias Gerhard had been tasked by the Imperial Commissariat with the job of distributing food and weapons as well as the many and varied sundries required by a nation and her allies in time of war. The Emperor had sent a fortune in supplies to Kislev but very little had ever reached those who desperately needed them.
The letters spoke of frequent thefts from the warehouses of Matthias Gerhard, and though his replies spoke of increased watchfulness, it seemed that nothing could prevent the haemorrhaging of supplies from his warehouses. Gerhard blamed the shiftless Kislevites, and to those in Altdorf it must have seemed as though the barbarous people of their northern neighbour were, through their own laziness and stupidity, cursing themselves to starvation and defeat. But here in the city, where it was clear that no one had enough to survive, it was obvious that the supplies were being stolen, just not by footpads.
Kaspar's fury at Teugenheim grew the more he read of the man's journal. The former ambassador must have known that desperately needed supplies from the Empire were being stolen by those entrusted with their distribution, yet had done nothing to prevent it.
Well, this ambassador would have something to say about that.
IV
THE SCHEERLAGEN'
S MAIDEN was in the process of being unloaded by the time they reached the quayside. A few other boats had moored, their crews tying thick ropes to iron bollards while others waited their turn at the quay. The sense of relief in the crew of Scheerlagen's Maiden was obvious now that they had finally arrived at their destination, and her captain didn't even seem to mind the exorbitant quayage levied on his ship.
Thick-cloaked Kislevite stevedores hauled scores of crates, barrels and heavy sacks on sturdy pulley mechanisms from the ship's hold and onto the cobbled quay where a number of wide-bodied wagons awaited them. A burly man with a large, bushy beard joked with the ship's captain, who looked like he simply wanted to get his vessels unloaded and depart.
'Spread out,' said Kaspar. 'Don't let any of the wagons leave.'
Bremen nodded and jabbed his mailed fist at the three routes leading from the quayside. The knights walked their horses towards them, forming a line of steel and blocking any passage with their heavy horses. With their visors lowered, they were a fearsome sight and though not one had a weapon drawn, the threat was obvious.
The crews and the struggling stevedores finally noticed their presence and cast bemused looks about the docks as Kaspar, Bremen and Pavel rode up to them. A few of the stevedores surreptitiously reached for knives or cudgels, but the scrape of sixteen wickedly sharp cavalry blades being drawn convinced them not to reach any further. The knights were horribly outnumbered, but even these thugs knew they could not defeat heavily armoured and well-trained knights.
The leader of the Knights Panther and Pavel dismounted while Kaspar retained the advantage of height.
'Those supplies,' he said to the captain, 'what are they?'
'What business is it of yours, fellow?' said the man.
'I am the ambassador of the Emperor Karl-Franz and I will ask the questions.'
Seeing the knights and hearing Kaspar's southern accent, the captain nodded.
'Very well, we're bringing in grain, salt, sword blades, axe heads and wheat. All signed, sealed and delivered. What's your problem?'
Kaspar ignored the question and addressed the Kislevite quaymaster next. 'And where do you take this cargo once it's been unloaded?'
The man didn't answer until Pavel barked Kaspar's question in his native tongue. His gaze switching between the two men, the quaymaster sneered and snarled his reply. Kaspar didn't understand his words, but caught the name Gerhard in the torrent of Kislevite.
'He say supplies for Gerhard's warehouse,' translated Pavel.
'Good.' said Kaspar. 'Tell them to finish emptying the boats and load the wagons.'
'Then what?' said Pavel.
'Then we wait for Herr Gerhard.' said Kaspar.
V
VALERY SHEWCHUK PULLED his wife and two daughters closer, feeling their ribs through the thin blanket that was all that separated them from the bitterly cold night. Snow fell in a drifting rain, but they had a good spot here in one of the many cobbled alleyways of the city, a recessed stairway that led up to a door which had long since been bricked up. Protected from the worst of the thieving winds and snow that stole the heat from your body, it was as close to shelter as he could find for his family. He brushed a strand of hair from his Nicolje's face, wishing she could have provided him with sons.
Cursed with aged parents and no sons to send off to war, he had struggled to find enough food to feed his extended family and even though the people of his stanista had tried to help, they could not neglect their own families for the sake of another.
Three weeks ago, his parents had left the stanista during the night and trudged out into the windswept oblast with no blankets and no food. No one had seen them leave and their frozen bodies had been discovered less than half a league from the gates of the stanista, lying embracing one another in the middle of the road.
Valery had wept for them, appreciating their sacrifice, but secretly relieved that he would no longer have to provide for them. As news of yet more stanistas and larger settlements being attacked reached the stanistas ataman, Valery made the decision to leave their izba and take his family to the capital.
He had laden his wagon with their meagre possessions and left, tearfully embracing his friends and neighbours. It had been a hard ride south and they had lost their youngest daughter on the journey, the infant succumbing to a fever that his Nicolje's herbal remedies could not break. They had buried her on the steppe and continued south.
Upon reaching the capital, he had sold his wagon and pony for a pittance and tried desperately to find some kind of work and lodgings for his family. None were available and they had been forced into this filthy alleyway, surviving on what he could steal or they could purchase with the few copper coins left to them.
Three times he had had to fight away thieves and other miscreants who sought to oust them from their shelter, and though he was desperately hungry and exhausted, Valery Shewchuk was a big man and not easy to put down.
He heard a soft padding on the snow from further up the alleyway and held his breath. Too soft for a booted foot, it might be an animal, a dog or cat or rat and the thought of fresh meat brought saliva to his mouth.
Valery slid his bone-handled knife, his one possession he had refused to sell, from its hide sheath and eased himself from the blanket. As thin as it was, he still felt the cold slice through him. His wife stirred from troubled dreams and groggily opened her eyes.
'Valery?'
'Hush, Nicolje,' he whispered. 'Perhaps food.'
He stood and slid himself up the wall, descending the steps and gripping his knife tightly. He hoped the noise he had heard was a dog. There was good eating on a dog.
He couldn't hear the sound any more and decided he would risk a glance around the edge of the recess to catch sight of his prey.
Valery eased his head around the stonework and his jaw fell open as he saw a naked man crouched in the shadows of the snowy alleyway. The man was obviously a madman, abroad in weather like this without furs or a cloak and, by Ursun, Valery was not about to have this lunatic dislodge them from their shelter.
The man gently rocked and muttered to himself, one hand tucked between his legs as he scraped at the flesh of his arms with ragged fingernails. The snow melted where droplets of blood landed.
'Ho there,' said Valery, raising his knife. 'Find yourself somewhere else to bed for the night.'
The man ignored him, muttering, 'No, no, no. They're just dreams... you are not me...'
Valery took a nervous step into the alleyway, keeping the tip of his knife pointed towards the crouched figure.
The man's head snapped up and Valery saw that he was wearing an ill-fitting mask of what appeared to be greyish leather, crudely stitched and curling at the edges. Eyes that glittered with lunacy stared through the mask at him.
The madman grinned saying, 'Wrong. I am the trueself,' and leapt forwards, a glittering knife appearing in his hand. The blade slashed down and Valery dropped, his lifeblood spraying from the severed artery in his thigh. He twisted as he fell and cracked his head on the ground.
'By Tor, leave my family alone!' he cried. 'I love them so much, I don't care that I have no sons. I love them too much to leave them. Please...'
He heard screams and a hissing noise, like meat on a skillet, from the recess of the steps, but couldn't see what was happening. He wept bitter tears, crawling weakly through the stained snow to reach his family.
The screams stopped.
A waterfall of blood spilled down the steps, pooling in the snow at their base.
The man who had murdered his family stepped into the alleyway, his face, chest and belly caked with blood that gleamed black in the moonlight. His eyes were alight, his chest heaving with excitement as the thrill of the kill pulsed through his veins.
Valery tried to reach for him as he felt his vision greying.
'No,' said the man, gently pushing him onto his back and leaning over him.
His bloody jaws opened wide.
The madman vomit
ed a froth of gristly blood over his chest and Valery screamed in agony as the viscous liquid hissed and ate the flesh from his bones.
He died as he felt a hand push deep inside the ruin of his chest.
VI
SORKA COULD HEAR screaming from somewhere, but ignored it. These days it was stranger when you didn't hear someone suffering. He made his way swiftly down the busy prospekt, still teeming with people despite the darkness and cold. He supposed some people had nowhere to go and feared lying down in the snow lest they not wake up again.
He clutched the metal box tightly within his jerkin, afraid to let it out of his sight, but terrified of holding it too close. Perhaps six inches square, the box was far heavier than something that size had any right to be, and though he had the key to the blackened padlock, the thought of opening the box both horrified and nauseated him. Ever since Chekatilo had given him the box to deliver, he had felt distinctly unwell.
He had been working for the leader of Kislev's criminal empire for nearly six months, spending most of that time enforcing his boss's will through a mixture of beatings, arson and intimidation. He was a big, solid man with little imagination and it thrilled him that his master had entrusted him with a mission of such obvious importance.
'Sorka,' Chekatilo had said, 'this is of great value to me. It must be delivered at midnight precisely at the end of Lime Alley, you know the place?'
Sorka had nodded, having dumped at least three corpses there. 'I won't let you down,' he had promised. He had been told to go to the basement and collect the metal box he now carried and had left immediately. His skin itched and his stomach churned with sickness. Perhaps the fish he had eaten earlier had been off.
He turned from the Goromadny Prospekt and wound his way through the twisting streets, checking his back trail to make sure he wasn't being followed. The fresh snows made it difficult to be sure and the busyness of the streets didn't help much either, but he couldn't see anyone behind him.
Warhammer - [The Ambassador Chronicles 01] - The Ambassador Page 9