The Ambassador Chronicles

by Graham McNeill

  Soldiers shivered and stamped their feet in the snow to ward off the cold as they awaited the order to march, fife and drum keeping the men entertained with martial tunes as black-robed Kislevite priests pronounced blessings upon them. But Kaspar's attention was not for the army of his countrymen, but the magnificent spectacle of the Kislev pulk.

  The Kislev pulk was a wondrous thing to behold. Kaspar had thought the army of Talabecland had been a colourful sight when it had arrived, but it was as nothing compared to the glory of a Kislevite army bedecked in all its finery.

  Glorious red horsemen with eagle-feathered back banners and shining, fur-edged helmets gathered at the foot of the Gora Geroyev, their scarlet and gold banners streaming behind them as they galloped westwards. He felt a stab of sadness as he remembered going into battle alongside such warriors and the memory of Pavel leading them in a magnificent charge. He missed his comrade, and had not seen him since throwing him from the embassy, but he could not undo what had been done.

  The lighter cavalry was followed by their more heavily armoured brethren, colourfully caparisoned knights in bronze armour who carried long lances and an enormous banner embroidered with a bear rampant. Swirling hordes of ragged but magnificent-looking archers on horseback whooped and hollered, the long scalp-locks whipping around them as they rode marking them as Ungols.

  Singing blocks of Kossars marched down the frozen roadway from the city gates, their strong voices easily carrying to the people on the walls. Each block wore a riot of colourful shirts and cloaks, baggy troos held at the waist by scarlet sashes and pointed iron helmets fringed with mail. Each man carried a long, heavy-bladed axe and Kaspar saw a great many carried powerful bows slung across their backs. Some carried shields, but it seemed that carrying something that could kill northmen was more important than a shield to most.

  Every single group of men carried either a wolf-headed standard, colourful banner or trophy rack bedecked with wolf tails, skulls and captured weapons and the barbaric splendour of the army was a truly breathtaking sight.

  But greatest of all was the Tzarina herself.

  Positioned at the head of her army, she was ready to take the fight to these northern barbarians who dared invade her land. Riding atop a tall, high-sided sled of shimmering icy brilliance, she watched her warriors prepare for march with an aloof gaze. A team of silver horses whose flanks shimmered with hoarfrost and whose breath was the winter wind were hitched to the front of the sled. The Tzarina's crown of ice glittered at her brow and her azure gown sparkled in the afternoon sun. Fearfrost was sheathed at her side and she wore a cloak woven from swirling crystals of ice and snow.

  A team of bare-chested warriors carried her banner, a monstrous, rippling thing of sapphire and crimson, and her soldiers cheered with their love for her as they gathered.

  The shouts of the soldiers and spectators died away at some unseen signal, the drummer boys and pipers quieting their instruments as a series of mournful peals were rung from the bells of the Reliquary of Saint Alexei. The pulk dropped to one knee, each man whispering a prayer to the gods that they would be victorious as the bells tolled across the silence of the steppe.

  As the last echoes of the bells faded, the Ice Queen drew her mighty war-blade and the armies of the Empire and Kislev marched westwards to war.

  Kaspar watched them go and prayed that Sigmar would watch over them.

  IV

  The frozen eyes of the children stared unblinkingly at him, refusing to avert their dead, accusing gaze from him. Sasha Kajetan sat on a cold, damp floor of earth with his back to an icy cellar wall, hugging his knees tightly to his chest. The dead children with the slashed throats in the corner of the room were his only company and all they did was accuse him.

  Had he killed them? He could not remember having slaughtered them, but memory meant nothing when it came to his murderous nature.

  His breath misted before him and he wondered when his matka would return. She had led him to this icy cellar and commanded him to wait. And as he had done since he was old enough to walk, he had obeyed her.

  But this was a terrible place, even the trueself retreating from the uppermost reaches of his consciousness at the pure, undiluted malice that seeped from the thing held within the locked bronze coffin that sat in the centre of the room.

  The scale of its desire to do harm exceeded even that of the trueself and he knew it was an unnatural creation that, but for the darkness within his own soul, would have killed him the instant he had set foot in this room.

  Sasha could feel his strength growing with each passing day he spent in the gloom of the cellar, the fragments of his rational mind that remained realising that it returned with unnatural speed, but grateful for whatever his matka was doing to hasten his recovery.

  He would need all his strength if he were to fulfil the purpose of his continued existence, and he allowed himself a tight smile as he thought once more of Ambassador von Velten.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I

  The drums of war beat out the pace of march, vast kettledrums mounted on brazen war-altars and struck by grossly swollen men covered in writhing tattoos and little else. Skulled totems raised on the backs of the war-altars were branded with the marks of the Dark Gods, shaggy, bestial creatures capering behind them braying their praise to their infernal masters.

  High Zar Aelfric Cyenwulf rode at the head of forty thousand warriors, an army of northern tribesmen that had never known defeat, and watched the lightening sky to the east as the first signs of the sunrise spilled over the snow-capped peaks of the World's Edge Mountains. The new year was barely weeks old and foaming rivers spilled down the flanks of the dark mountains, cold and hard with melted ice water as the breathlessly young spring took hold.

  He and his dark knights, giant warriors mounted on midnight black steeds barded with blooded mail, halted on the crown of an upthrust crag of black rock. Their giant horses had coal-red eyes, wide chests and huge, rippling muscles, each beast at least twenty hands high, the only mounts in the world capable of carrying the High Zar's armoured knights of Chaos.

  The High Zar scanned the ground before him, spotting the route his army must take through the foothills of the mountains without difficulty; his forward scouts having travelled this way earlier the previous year to find the best route for his army to travel. Soon their course would lead them westwards towards the southernmost tributary of the Tobol and the valley of Urszebya.

  They had bypassed Praag over a week ago without incident, his Kyazak outriders capturing and skinning itinerant rotas of Ungol scouts that approached too incautiously. Cyenwulf knew it was inevitable that word of his army's route would soon reach the south, but the longer he could delay it the better.

  He twisted in the saddle of his huge black mare, watching his horde of dark armoured warriors, beasts, monsters and heavy chariots as it emerged from a deep cut in the foothills. What force in the world could stand against such an army? He longed for battle again, the enforced preparations over the winter chafing at his warriors soul that hungered for the screams of his enemies, the lamentations of their womenfolk and the glory of Chaos that would be his when they swept aside the armies of the southlanders.

  A hoarse cheer went up from the army as the concealing darkness of the Old One came into sight through the cut in the ground. Cyenwulf saw that the lightning sheathed darkness surrounding it seemed somehow thinner, less substantial, as though the further it travelled from its mountain lair, the less concealment it could summon. Massive-thewed reptilian limbs, with claws as large as a man's arm, and a wild mane of shaggy black fur were all he could make out through the thinning smoke, but he now knew that the stories of the Old Ones strength and power were not misplaced.

  The bestial ones of his army abased themselves before the creature, howling in praise of its terrible majesty and waving their crude iron axes as it passed. Cyenwulf had seen that his own warriors were now worshipping this creature as a sign of the dark gods' favo
ur, offering the skinned, still-living bodies of prisoners for it to devour.

  The Old One was a blessing, but, as was typical for the blessings of Tchar, it came with a price. With the Old One's presence they could not lose, but as its worship spread throughout his army, he could feel its fighting discipline diminish.

  Some groups of fierce norsemen had already descended into blood madness and slaughtered one another that it might glance their way. Other tribes were turning to cannibalism, which, in itself, was not that unusual, but these killers were preying on warriors from other tribes and such slaughter could only lead to devastating blood-feuds.

  Such bloody displays of devotion were growing daily and Cyenwulf knew that he had to bring his army to battle soon or risk it becoming a thrashing, mindless mob.

  II

  Chekatilo drained the last of his kvas, hurling the glass into the roaring fire, where the residue of the spirit flared briefly with a bright flame. His temper had deteriorated as the weeks had passed and spring took hold of Kislev, even the great victory of the allies at Mazhorod not quelling his desire to leave the city.

  Yesterday, forward riders of the Tzarina's personal guard had brought news that the combined armies of Kislev and the Empire had met the army of a Kurgan war leader named Surtha Lenk at the river crossing of Mazhorod and destroyed it utterly. Boyarin Kurkosk remained in the west to hunt down the last elements of Lenk's army, but the armies of Stirland and Talabecland had buried their dead before marching east towards Kislev with the Tzarina to fight a host of northmen rumoured to be following the course of the World's Edge Mountains. It was said the allied armies were a day from Kislev's walls.

  Chekatilo needed to be away from Kislev, a growing sense of being suffocated in this doomed city growing with each day. But without the ambassadors travel documents and Imperial seal, it would be a risky venture at best to travel through Kislev and the Empire towards Marienburg. The odds were against him arriving as anything other than a pauper, and that was not going to happen.

  Rejak poured him another kvas in a fresh glass and said, 'You'd best not break this one, it's the last of them.'

  Chekatilo grunted in acknowledgement. Rejak took a swig from the bottle as he paced the room, the fire casting a flickering glow on the bare timber walls. Chekatilo's valuables were packed into a train of covered wagons ready to be driven to the Empire once he had what he needed from the ambassador.

  It still galled him that von Velten had refused to honour his debt. Such things simply did not happen. Not to him.

  'You're sure there's still no word from Korovic? It's been weeks,' said Chekatilo.

  'None at all,' confirmed Rejak. 'I don't expect any either, I think he's probably fled the city already. And even if he hasn't, he's not going to do it. He won't betray the ambassador.'

  'You underestimate Korovic's weakness, Rejak,' said Chekatilo.

  'You should have let me kill him long ago.'

  'Perhaps,' agreed Chekatilo, 'but I owed Drostya and could not do that, but the time has passed for observing such niceties.'

  Rejak grinned. 'I can kill Korovic then?'

  Chekatilo nodded. 'Of course, but I think von Velten needs to learn the meaning of pain first. I think then he will begin to regret his decision to throw his debt back at me.'

  'What do you have in mind?' asked Rejak eagerly.

  'I have been too forgiving with the ambassador,' mused Chekatilo. 'I think that I quite liked him, but it is of no matter. I have killed men I liked before.'

  'You want me to kill von Velten?'

  'No,' said Chekatilo, shaking his head and sipping his kvas. 'I want him to suffer, Rejak. A foolish sense of honour has kept me from treating him the way I would anyone else, but that ends now. Tomorrow night I will speak to Ambassador von Velten again and tell him to give me what I want.'

  'What makes you think he will agree this time?'

  'Because before I go, I want you to go to the home of that woman he cares for, Anastasia Vilkova, the one the soldiers call the White Lady of Kislev.'

  'And do what?'

  Chekatilo shrugged. 'Rape her, torture her, kill her; it is of no matter to me. You saw how desperate von Velten was to get his physician back, so imagine how much more terror he will feel when I tell him that you have Anastasia Vilkova prisoner. He will have no choice but to give me what I want. By the time he discovers she is already dead, it will make no difference.'

  Rejak nodded, already anticipating the terrible things he was going to do to Anastasia Vilkova.

  III

  The Banqueting Hall of the Winter Palace was the centre of the formal ensemble of parade halls in the Tzarina's fastness. Like the Gallery of Heroes, the walls were fashioned from smooth ice with central doors that led onto a terrace overlooking the gardens below. From where he sat, Kaspar guessed that the room was set for about four hundred diners with service stations along the wall, one for each table. The table settings included all the glassware required for the meal, flawlessly etched and enamelled with the Tzarina's monogram and Kislevite bear. The excited buzz of conversation filled the hall, officers and soldiers animatedly telling tales of the battles won and battles yet to be fought.

  The allied army had arrived at Kislev that morning, amid celebrations so riotous that Kaspar had thought the war already won. Cheering crowds lined the road to the city to welcome home their victorious Tzarina, hanging garlands of spring flowers around the necks of the returning soldiers. The men were weary and hungry, having marched almost nonstop to reach Kislev as quickly as they could. Kaspar just hoped they had enough time to rest, because if the rumours of Aelfric Cyenwulfs horde were to be believed, then the chieftain of the Iron Wolves came with a force much larger than anyone had expected.

  With a speed Kaspar found incredible, the Tzarina had announced a victory banquet at the Winter Palace and, as ambassador, he had received his gilt-edged invitation that very afternoon. It seemed inappropriate to feast while so many people went hungry in the streets of the city, but as Pavel had pointed out many months ago, etiquette demanded that the Ice Queen's invitations take precedence over all other previous engagements, even duty to the dead.

  As Kaspar and Sofia had made their way to their table, he had stepped from the path of a red uniformed lancer, whose faded tunic strained to contain his prodigious gut, before realising with a start that the man was Pavel.

  'Pavel? Why are you here?' Kaspar had asked.

  His old friend had shuffled nervously from foot to foot before saying. 'I rejoin old regiment now that war has come. Many die at Mazhorod and they need every man who can fight. Because I fight for them before they make me towarzysz.'

  Kaspar nodded, saying, 'Good, good.'

  'It means "comrade",' explained Sofia, seeing Kaspar's confusion. 'It is a leader of a cavalry troop.'

  'I see,' said Kaspar. The thought of his old comrade going into battle without him gave him a dark feeling of premonition and they moved on.

  'One day you will need to tell me what happened between the two of you,' said Sofia.

  'Perhaps one day,' agreed Kaspar as they finally arrived at their designated table and sat in time for a short prayer of thanks from a priest at the top table.

  Set with huge, solid silver candelabras, he and Sofia had been seated with several junior officers of the Stirland army and as the evening progressed, the conversation was lively and interesting. Whoever had decided upon the seating plan for this victory banquet obviously knew of his antipathy towards Spitzaner, who, along with the boyarins of the Kislev pulk and General Arnulf Pavian, commander of the army of Stirland, sat at the top table with the Ice Queen herself. Standing behind the Tzarina was Pjotr Losov, and Kaspar had to fight the urge to do something he knew he would regret.

  He had brought Sofia because he hated to attend such occasions alone, knowing that while the commanders of the army might celebrate victory, the men who had won it were usually not enjoying the rewards of their courage. She looked stunning in a velvet gown
of deep crimson, her auburn hair worn high on her head, exposing her long neck and shoulders. A smooth blue stone wrapped in a web of silver wire hung around her neck on a thin chain and Kaspar smiled, glad to have her with him.

  Sensing his scrutiny, she looked up from a conversation she was having with a dark haired man wearing an ostentatious uniform of puffed blue silk and silver, with a white sash worn diagonally across his medal-strewn chest. His skin was swarthy and his moustache waxed in an elaborate upward curl. Sofia smiled back at him and said, 'Have you met General Albertalli, Kaspar? He leads the Tilean mercenary regiments that fought with General Pavian at Krasicyno and led a charge that broke the Kurgan line at Mazhorod.'

  'No, I have not.' said Kaspar graciously, extending his hand for the Tilean to shake. 'A pleasure, sir.'

  The man shook Kaspar's hand enthusiastically, saying, 'I am knowing you, sir. I read all about you. You never lost a battle.' Kaspar tried to hide his pleasure at meeting someone who knew of his career in the army, but blushed as he caught Sofia smiling at his obvious pride.

  'That is correct, sir. Thank you for mentioning it. My compliments on the victories at Krasicyno and Mazhorod.'

  The Tilean bowed and said, 'Hard days, much blood shed to win them.'

  'I do not doubt it.' agreed Kaspar. 'What were they like, the Kurgans I mean?'

  Albertalli sucked in a great breath and shook his head. 'Bastards to a man. Big, tough men that fight like daemons, with swords as long as a tall man. Packs of wild hounds, and warriors on the biggest horses I ever see. No one want to say it, but we were damn lucky at Mazhorod. Fought on a river, should have been easy, yes? But the river freeze solid in an instant and Kurgans were all over us. Hard, bloody fighting that day, but we killed many men and it is they who run from us, yes?'

  Kaspar and Albertalli fell deep into conversation concerning the Kurgans, their tactics and how the various generals had led their men on the day. Kaspar was surprised to learn that Spitzaner had actually done well, leading his soldiers competently and solidly.