[Warhammer] - Dreadfleet

by Phil Kelly - (ebook by Undead)

  The flecks of spittle that came from the captain’s mouth glinted golden in the candlelight.

  “The way I hear it, you lot know how to kill those who can cheat death. You’ve the right weapons to do it. Weapons enough to kill the worst of them, Noctilus they call him. And to sink his hellspawned warship to boot.”

  The Grand Theogonist remained as still as stone, staring hard at Roth. The captain’s gaze didn’t flinch for a moment.

  “A single crew won’t do it. I need men,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “I need an army of battle-hardened and fearless men. I need gold, and lots of it. But what I need most of all, your holiness, is a way to kill the dead.

  “It’s not just the Bloody Reaver I’ll put down,” Roth went on. “I’ll sink his fleet too. I’ve seen his allies first-hand. A ghost-galleon that sails on the wind and a mechanical daemon from the deep, all tentacles and cold fury. That’s why I’m here.”

  Roth took a deep breath before continuing.

  “They say that the weapons of the faithful can put down even the spirits of the damned. I’m going to hunt them down and kill the lot of them, and I’m going to see the one that controls them burn in front of me. And you’re going to help.”

  There was another leaden pause, and a profound silence. Even the madrigal singers had gathered up their hymnal sheets and left.

  “Am I indeed?”

  The Grand Theogonist’s eyes narrowed. His words stabbed at Roth like icicles.

  “Am I indeed, Jaego Roth? Despite the fact that barbarian tribes push through Kislev into Ostermark and beyond? Despite the fact that the navy of our beloved Emperor needs every vessel it can muster to hunt their damned wolf-ships? Despite the future of the realm being at stake, and despite army after army dying in a never-ending war that threatens to snuff out the civilised world and replace it with Chaos?”

  The last word raced around the temple like a living wind, candles fluttering in its wake.

  The Grand Theogonist stood from his throne, his face contorted into a snarl, and strode forward until his face was a fraction of an inch from Roth’s own. His eyes were blazing, terrible things. They had seen sights that would drive a man to madness.

  The captain looked away.

  “Now you listen to me, Jaego, son of Indigio,” hissed Volkmar. “I know your kind, and I care not that you have suffered at this fiend’s hands. I know of the Sea-Curse. I know of the Galleon’s Graveyard, amazing as that may seem to you. The true name of your foe is Count Nyklaus von Carstein, and he is a prodigal of the vampiric aristocracy. I have known good men who languish in his clutches to this day. But I would rather save the souls of the living than avenge the dead.”

  Volkmar stepped back, his chin held high.

  “I will give you nothing save your true title, pirate. You will take your poison from this most holy of places, and you will never return. That is the only condition upon which I will let you live.”

  Roth gaped, stunned into silence. The Theogonist stalked back to his throne before continuing.

  “This, and this alone, I offer you. Leave now, fool, or it will go the worse for you.”

  The circle of Sigmarite priests had closed in without Roth realising it. They stood around him in a ring of steel and iron resolve, warhammers held ready.

  Fury boiling behind his eyes, Roth turned on his heel and strode past them out of the Reikstemple.

  That night, the Heldenhammer set sail.

  An hour before midnight, dozens of oar-ships, jolly-boats and cogs gathered in the shadow of the Nightwatch. Roth had spent every last crown of his fortune on recruitment before setting sail and when his ship had entered the Reik earlier that day, its bilges had already been replete with hidden killers. The most hardened murderers the taverns of Sartosa could provide were quickly and silently lowering themselves into the auxiliaries from ropes slung over the galleon’s gunwales.

  Loaded to capacity with a small army of cutthroats, the flotilla of small vessels had wound their way downriver. Under the cover of a moonless night, no single ship was large enough to cause alarm. On they came, slow as driftwood, weaving their way between warships and using warehouses and galleons as cover. One by one they amassed in the shadow of the Heldenhammer’s wallowing girth.

  None of the single-masted ships were tall enough to be spotted by the sentries stationed in the cannon houses that jutted out above them. On the banks of the Reik, the night watchmen who would normally have reported such a strange gathering of vessels were either mysteriously absent from their posts or slumped unconscious next to a bottle of Sartosan grog.

  As soon as this miniature armada had assembled, row upon row of grappling hooks were flung upwards from each vessel. Hundreds of black-clad pirates swarmed up the ropes. Some leapt deftly from cannon house to ridge before spilling over onto the great warship’s deck, rushing into shadow and melting away under rigging and sailcloth. Whenever a sentry passed by, tattooed mariners would slink from their hiding places and slit their throats without a sound, swiftly dragging their bodies back into the darkness and stashing them behind barrels and crates.

  By the time Roth climbed aboard, the deck of the temple-ship was already his. Tonight was the Sigmarite festival known as the Feast of the Comet, and the majority of the warship’s devout crew were at prayer in the Reikstemple. No doubt there remained a cadre of Sigmarites within the Grand Templus, but once Roth’s men had barred the doors shut with a pair of stout planks it was a simple matter to pick off the remaining sentries one by one. The captain chuckled darkly to himself. This would teach that pompous prick Volkmar to underestimate the Sartosans.

  The Nipponese assassins that Roth had enlisted in the Beggar’s Bowl climbed down the rigging towards him, long since having ensured that the men stationed in the sentinel’s nests were silenced. They gave a series of curt bows as they passed before disappearing below decks. Seven black-bandaged forms blended into the darkness with sinister ease.

  Roth smiled as he paced along the deck of his new warship and looked over the side. Below him, the ramshackle flotilla that had loitered at the Heldenhammer’s waterline was drifting away downriver. By the time the crewless auxiliaries were spotted, it would be far too late.

  The captain nodded approvingly as his teeming army of pirates went about their work. The most bloodthirsty of their number had followed the Nipponese assassins below decks to continue the killing whilst his gun-teams marvelled at the size and number of the cannons at their disposal.

  “Get the measure of her as quick as you can, lads, and cast off,” said Roth, motioning to the rigging teams above to unfurl the sails. “Steady as she goes, mind, we’re not through the storm yet. Burke,” he said to the master gunner, “I want these guns primed and ready, but tell your boys to keep their tapers stowed. I’ll personally gut any man who opens fire without my say-so. You’ll get your chance soon enough.”

  A hunched figure slid from the shadows behind Roth, his fishtailed dagger dripping blood. Will o’ the Waves, as weasel-faced a killer as ever plied the ocean.

  “But captain…” he wheedled, “them Sigmarites’ll rumble us soon as sight us, won’t they? Look there, half a dozen other god-lovin’ fishes that’ll come after this old whale, eh? Six by my count.” He leered, exposing teeth filed to sharp points. “That’s a lot, isn’t it, captain?”

  “Shut your hole, Bill, or I’ll put my sickle in it. Salty’s got us covered.”

  There was a series of low snaps from above, and acre upon acre of rich red sailcloth began to flow downward from the Heldenhammer’s three great masts. As the sails unfurled they revealed the vast heraldic devices emblazoned upon them: a giant glowering sun with the face of a lion, a pair of skull-headed mergryphons, and a twin-tailed comet that soared above a hammer-wielding skeleton. Roth had heard that the masts were Drakwald ironoaks taken from the monster-haunted forest at a great cost in lives. Each bore a pair of octagonal sentinel’s nests the size of a shrinehouse, one at half-mast and one right at the
dizzying top.

  As the crew below trimmed the sails to make the most of the prevailing wind, the swathes of crimson cloth bellied out and filled with air. Ever so slowly, the Heldenhammer began to move away from the dockside, the thick cables that had secured her coiled in with practiced ease.

  Before the galleon had got thirty yards from the harbour-side, a clamour of warning bells rang from the lector-houses ranged around the Reikstemple. The din was tremendous. The faithful poured out from their feast, incoherent with rage and brandishing maces and glowing warhammers as they sprinted toward the warships that formed the rest of the Sigmarite fleet.

  As the Heldenhammer carved out into the heart of the River Reik, the smaller, swifter vessels of the Sigmarite fleet began to cast off and head after them in pursuit. Six abreast they came, gathering speed with every passing minute. Roth rolled his eyes in contempt. They were faster than the Heldenhammer, true, but as wide as the river was, there was no way so many vessels could fight effectively in such close confines. Their line of approach had landlubber written all over it. Bloody god-baiters, they were the same the world over: all fire and no finesse.

  The captain slid his father’s spying-glass from the map case and surveyed the Sigmarite warships. The command deck of the leading vessel sprang into focus as if it were only yards away. The decks were thronged with self-flagellating madmen intent upon his demise, even if it meant hastening their own. On that count at least, Roth would be happy to oblige.

  The captain refocused the seeing-lenses of his spyglass so that he could see into the dockyards behind the pursuing warships. Sure enough, the Nightwatch was slinking out from its hiding place amongst the merchantmen and schooners clustering the wharf. It came about with murderous grace, following the Sigmarite fleet like a lion stalking a pack of wolves.

  “Good old Salt,” muttered Roth, “Faithful to the last.”

  The captain felt a pulse of guilt, suddenly anxious that he had sent the outsized mariner to his death. And his beloved Nightwatch too, come to that. Will o’ the Waves was right: six warships were not easily shrugged off, regardless of their competence. The thought did not sit well. Still, thought Roth, casting his gaze across the temple-ship’s incredible architecture, it would be worth it. Woe betide the warship that tried to bar their passage out to sea. Not even the Bloody Reaver could stand a direct hit from the godhammer upon the temple-ship’s prow.

  Roth gave an involuntary shudder of anticipation as he looked back at the vessels closing in upon them. The warships were at full sail and had already approached well within range of the chasing cannons on the rear of the Grand Templus, but Roth wanted them even closer before he gave the order to fire.

  Puffs of white smoke came from three of the pursuing ships, and a deep boom echoed across the water as a volley of cannonballs hurtled towards them. One punched a smoking hole in the lateen sail above the Templus, and another took a chunk from the aft mast in a shower of splinters.

  “Sail-shots,” said Roth. “Interesting. I’ll bet they’ve been told to leave us drifting, and to take back Volkmar’s precious warship the hard way. Blade to blade.”

  “Like as not, sir,” said Ghow Southman, appearing at Roth’s side. For such a thick-set man, the islander moved with disconcerting speed. His obscene tattoos and extensive piercings were not well suited for polite company, but he was dutiful in his own way, and his habit of always being there when Roth needed him was invaluable. “We wetting the swords today, are we sir?”

  “Not today, Ghow, no. Salty and I have other plans.”

  “Salty this, Salty that,” muttered Ghow, but Roth had already strode over to the mizzenmast. “Pennants up!” he shouted, hand cupped around his mouth.

  A trio of black flags bearing the crossed cutlasses and the skull-and-mauls fluttered up to the tip of each topmast, the colours of Sartosa plain for all to see.

  “Now hard-a-port!” shouted Roth. “Hard-a-port, trim the sails and bring her round!”

  The Heldenhammer began to turn with a slow but unstoppable momentum. The temple-ship’s stern swung around until it was perpendicular with the Sigmarite fleet’s advance, blocking the middle of the river. In the middle distance, the Nightwatch responded to Roth’s signal pennants by mirroring this manoeuvre, using the river’s current to turn hard-a-starboard with exceptional precision.

  In less than a minute the two warships had bracketed the Sigmarite fleet fore and aft like slaughterhouse doors closing upon a flock of sheep. Ten dozen cannons were brought to bear upon the Sigmarite vessels, perfectly poised for raking fire along the length of the pursuing craft. The enemy, clearly expecting their prey to flee and little else, were far too tightly packed for evasive manoeuvres.

  “Master Burke,” shouted Roth. “Show these amateurs a proper broadside, if you would be so kind.”

  “Aye, captain,” shouted Burke, grinning fiercely as he turned to his men. “Open fire!”

  The deck of the Heldenhammer lurched beneath Roth’s feet as a monstrous fusillade of cannonballs hurtled across the Reik. The unexpected force of the broadside nearly knocked the captain over, ears ringing with the deafening crack of the guns. Steadying himself, Roth cackled madly and rushed to the port gunwale.

  Two of the Sigmarite vessels were belching smoke, great gouges torn in their hulls. Another was listing badly, the fires on its deck burning bright in the darkness. Roth watched jubilantly as the aftmasts of two of the centremost galleons slowly toppled into the rigging of the warships next to them, tangling their sails hopelessly. Clearly the Nightwatch’s broadside had also taken a heavy toll.

  “Good work, Salt!” shouted Roth, raising his sickle in salute.

  The Sigmarite vessels in the heart of the Reik were slewing around in confusion. The drifting cloud from the Heldenhammer’s broadside obscured their vision as they frantically tried to bring their cannons to bear. Prows clashed and timbers splintered as the flaming vessel veered into the galleon next to it. On either end of the fleet, the two undamaged vessels slackened their sails and hung back, waiting for the Nightwatch to drift into the crossfire of their guns. Perhaps some of them could sail after all. Roth heard the sound of distant cannon fire as the Sigmarite warships took their frustrations out on the Nightwatch, but there was little he could do about it now. Salt Pietr had bought them the time to escape. Roth fought down the hot feeling in his throat, telling himself there was no way Pietr would have wanted him to squander his best chance of escaping with the Heldenhammer.

  “Come about,” shouted Roth, irritably. “Come about and full sail.”

  The Heldenhammer began to turn back into the current, its sails snapping full as it began to outpace its tangled pursuers.

  “Oh, surely not sir?” pleaded Ghow Southman, grinning like a loon as he paced over to join Roth at the gunwale, “Only one broadside? We’ve got ’em stuck like pigs on a spit.”

  “Save the powder for the real enemy, Ghow,” said Roth. “Surely a first mate should know that.”

  The islander laughed, sketching a mock salute. “Aye, sir, he should at that. Where to then? Sartosa is it?”

  “Zandri, believe it or not.”

  “Zandri… Zandri, captain?” said Ghow, plucking at the piercings in his ear. “You’re having me on, right?”

  Roth just shook his head, lips pursed as he stared grimly down the Reik towards the sea.

  “But that’s on the Nehekharan coast! It’s a desert full o’ the walking dead, isn’t it? Haven’t we got enough of them to worry about?”

  “We need gold, Ghow! Untold amounts of it. Nehekhara’s awash with the stuff, everybody knows that. The way I hear it, even a beggar’s pyramid contains more coin than you and I would ever see in a lifetime of grubbing about in Sartosa. We get in, we steal as much as we can carry, we get out. Unless you fancy heading back to Lustria, of course?”

  Ghow looked back at the disappearing Sigmarite fleet, his expression cold. “Right you are, sir.”

  “From Zandri, we sail due west
to El Khabbath. An old acquaintance of mine is fond of the place, and we could use his skills in matters arcane. You might remember him, Ghow. He’s the cove responsible for my glass eye, and for replacing my hand with… this.”

  Roth raised his steam-sickle, the blade clicking round so it gleamed in the sunlight.

  Ghow’s tattooed brows met like caterpillars in mating season. “Really, sir? You want to bring that fat bastard into this?”

  “Oh for Manann’s sake, Ghow,” moaned Roth, despairingly. “Have some faith. You didn’t think I could steal the Heldenhammer, now you don’t think I can pull off a simple raid, or sweet-talk the most arrogant man in Araby.”

  Roth turned around to face his first mate, his eyes sparkling with the fire of the old days. He looked younger than the islander had seen him in years.

  “Tell me, Ghow, do you ever get tired of being proved wrong?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  El Khabbath, the Pirate Coast, Araby

  10th Day of Pflugheit, 2522

  Captain Roth brushed aside the pennants hiding the koffe tent’s interior from the bustling marketplace and ventured inside.

  The City-port of the Eight Winds, they called it, but Roth knew of only one—the stinging sirocco that blew in great whirling sand devils from Araby’s endless desert. The Heldenhammer had only been docked for half a day, but Roth was already thoroughly sick of this place. There was sand in his beard, in his collar, in his mouth, between the delicate mechanisms of his eye lenses, clogging the cogs of his sickle, even in the crack of his arse. It almost made him long for the lifeless crystal waters of Nehekhara.

  Uncomfortably vivid memories of lightless pyramidal tombs, bloodstained sand and the relentless pursuit of Zandrian war galleys rose unbidden in Roth’s mind.

  Well, perhaps not.