Slaves to Darkness 03 (The Heart of Chaos)

by Warhammer

  A moment later, Ruprecht was there, hammer in hand. Ursula looked round at him, and then beyond to where the Norse were breaking and fleeing, outnumbered, their leader dead. She looked Ruprecht in the eye.

  'Worried?' she said, pulling Ulfshard free and lifting it up in front of the tall Talabheimer.

  'Why ever would I be?' he said with a scowl. He looked out towards the fjord, and she followed his gaze. Two longships were nearing the shore, the Graf Suiden alongside. 'Enough of this, there's still more fighting to be done'.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A New Glory

  Faeringhold, Norscan coast, Early winter 1711

  The early dawn light dappled off the Sea of Claws, the ships of the invaders from the Empire now nothing more than dark spots in the distance. Kurt Sutenvulf, dispossessed lord of the Fjaergard, watched them disappear into the gloom with a scowl. Though he was almost naked, clad only in heavy boots, loincloth and fur cloak, the biting wind had no effect on his inhuman flesh. The same could not be said for Jakob, who stood shivering just behind his master, his heavy cloak wrapped tightly around his wiry frame, his teeth chattering. Frost had formed on his scraggly beard, and he cursed quietly to himself that he had been forced to come out into the elements before the weak northern sun had had a chance to warm the ground. Though the half-Norse shaman had grown up in these inhospitable climes, he had never got used to the winter cold.

  With them were Gird and Undar, completing the chosen warriors cabal of trusted companions. Gird was half-asleep, leaning on the pole of the banner he carried for Kurt, its crosspiece hung with the bones of Gird's own brother. Undar was dressed in a long suit of mail, the bitter wind tugging at his black cloak, his long raven hair pulled back by a silver circlet fashioned in the shape of a dragon. A heavy mace hung from his belt, amongst numerous daggers and small axes.

  Kurt turned his attention to the now empty ruins that had been Faeringhold. Smoke still rose fitfully from a few of the collapsed buildings, and from the clifftop they could see the mounds of bodies that had been piled on the shore. The wreckage of two longships had been washed up amongst them, and Kurt remembered the awesome sight of the Imperial greatship cutting between the two of them, risking running aground, and unleashing a rolling broadside down each flank. The much smaller Norse vessels had both been sunk with that single salvo, the survivors picked off by marksmen as they swam for shore, or cut down by vengeful soldiers as they dragged themselves out of the surf.

  'Jolnir was an idiot.' Kurt said, turning to the others, his scowl twisting the swirling patterns etched into the flesh of his face.

  'Perhaps he would have succeeded if you had not let him go alone,' said Undar. Gird and Jakob both visibly shrunk back from Kurt, expecting an outburst prompted by Undar's questioning tone. Only Undar, another Chosen and the equal of Kurt's fighting prowess, ever dared to question their leader.

  'That wasn't the point,' Kurt said. 'Killing Ursula and the others would have achieved nothing. Now we have lost eight ships and five hundred men, not to mention the mammut. It was wasteful.'

  They walked in silence along the clifftop, and at a word from Kurt, Gird waved the banner three times, indicating to the army that waited further back from the hilltop that it was all clear. Made up of those who had sided with Kurt rather than Jolnir, they now numbered barely a thousand warriors. For two days they had hidden in the forests many miles from Faeringhold, sending out scouts to watch for when Ursula's army had left. Now they traipsed across the hills towards Faeringhold, heads low, their despondency like a cloud hanging over them.

  'We might have carried the day,' argued Undar, who was only barely less headstrong than Jolnir had been. 'Our warriors with Jolnir and Fengris would have overwhelmed them.'

  'And then what?' asked Jakob, walking beside Kurt to use the chosen warrior's considerable bulk to shield himself from the wind. 'The ships sail away, and Faeringhold would still lie in ruins. And what of us? Perhaps a shattered, spent force.'

  Undar grabbed the shaman by his cloak, nearly yanking him off the ground.

  'Little weasel,' the champion said, dragging Jakob close. 'You would avoid battle with any excuse. You're just buying time, hoping that our venture never succeeds.'

  'It's not true,' said Jakob, squirming in Undar's grip, twisting his head to look pleadingly at Kurt, his true master. The Sutenvulf gave him a hard glare.

  'He is a weasel, but he is right.' said Kurt, laying his hand on Undar's arm. The other Chosen looked at Kurt for a moment, and then released his grip on the shaman, who stumbled and nearly fell. 'It will take an army the like of which you have never seen, nor has existed in the lifetime of your father, to attack the Empire.'

  They were now stood where Jolnir's army had paused before attacking, looking over the desolate settlement. There were obviously no survivors, even Gorl of the Many Poxes had been ridden down as he tried to flee when Jolnir had fallen and the knights had returned to pursue the broken Norsemen.

  'Search the ruins and the bodies, take what we can.' he said to the others, motioning for Gird and Undar to take the message to the others. As they walked off, Kurt stopped for a moment with Jakob beside him.

  'There will be a reckoning.' the Chosen said, resting his meaty hand on the pommel of his old sword, the only evidence that remained of his days as a knight of the Osterknacht. 'This is bigger than Ursula now. Those knights followed her, those soldiers were paid. Someone in the Empire thought it a great endeavour to finance this expedition. I don't care who it was. The sheep do not attack the wolf, it is unnatural. These sheep need teaching again, and I will be the teacher.'

  'And so what will you do next?' asked Jakob. 'How will you get such an army?'

  'That is why I keep you around.' said Kurt, starting off down the slope. 'Tell me a way that would give me such power.'

  Jakob thought for a moment, and then stopped suddenly, staring at the corpse of a Norse warrior lying in the frozen mud of the hillside.

  'What is it?' asked Kurt looking at the body. It was then he noticed the hands had been chopped off. It was a grave insult among many Norse tribes, for how could a warrior wield sword and shield in the afterlife if his spirit had no hands?

  'It seems the Sigmarite bitch didn't ignore everything I taught you when we first met,' Jakob said. 'She listened enough to learn how to hurt us the most.'

  'There is an old saying in the Empire,' said Kurt, looking up from the body. '"Know thine enemy". She knows plenty about the Norse, but I know more about the Empire. They are divided, weak. The east is weakest of all, ravaged by orcs in the south. In the spring, when the rivers are in full flood, it is hard for them to move armies upriver, and the roads through the forests are long and winding. We shall mass an army and strike through Kislev. From there, to the Ostermark. Ostland will not aid them, afraid of Reikland and Middenland taking their lands while they are occupied elsewhere. If an oafish orc brute can take the Runefang of Wissenland, then why can't an ex-Osterknacht knight wield the sword of the Count of Ostermark?'

  Three days had passed since the destruction of Faeringhold and the loss of Narthur and his allies. Campfires burned brightly amongst the charred ruins of the village, each of the tribes that had gathered under Kurt's banner keeping to their own company.

  There was no singing, no feasting, no drinking. A sombre mood had descended on everyone, and on Kurt the most.

  There was dissent, and not just from Undar, but from other chieftains, even those who were not as gifted by the gods as Kurt. He could easily slay them in challenge and take their warriors as his own, but there had to be another way. There were some who muttered that the Sutenmjar, the southern pup, was a bad omen, and was not sent by the gods at all but had merely usurped power. Even his extraordinary voyage to distant Nehekhara and his battle against the Tomb Kings of that land no longer inspired them. The fact that he had thrown all of the plunder from the expedition into the sea had not won many hearts either, he realised. He had to show them that his way was the true way,
that this was the intent of the gods.

  He needed a sign.

  Jakob was quiet as Kurt explained his worries, the pair of them sitting with bowls of thin stew around a small fire in the burned timbers that had once been the long hall of the Faering chieftain. When Kurt had finished, Jakob sat for a while in thought, slurping his stew with a wooden spoon, gobbets of boiled horse-meat dribbling into his beard.

  'Well?' said Kurt, growing impatient as he swilled down the last of the stew in one long gulp. 'Perform a ritual, talk to the gods, summon a messenger for me.'

  'I cannot do these things,' replied Jakob slowly. 'You know that I do not have that kind of power. The gods do not exist to answer to the calls of men. They bestow their gifts on those that please them, and their curses on those that displease them.'

  'Surely the ruination of the Empire is pleasing to the gods?' said Kurt, casting his bowl aside and standing up. He paced to and fro with long strides, looking up at the cloudy skies. 'I cannot win. Without their help, I have no army, and with no army they will not help.'

  'There is another way to prove yourself.' said Jakob quietly, almost reluctant to offer the suggestion.

  'Another way to prove myself?' said Kurt, stopping his pacing and turning to the shaman. 'Like the ritual in Tungask?'

  'No.' chuckled Jakob. 'Not at all like that. That was merely an initiation, to let the gods see you for a short while. You did well and they granted you favours, but your exploits bore them now, and like their people, perhaps they have lost faith in your abilities.'

  'So what must I do?' asked Kurt, his voice almost pleading. 'How do I attract their gaze again?'

  'You must stand before them, and challenge them in person.' said Jakob, gazing into his bowl.

  Kurt laughed deeply, but then his good humour passed and he kicked out in a fit of temper, scattering broken, charred wood.

  'And how does one do that?' he said, stooping over Jakob, his flittering shadow from the campfires bathing the shaman in darkness. 'Grow wings and fly up to them?'

  'There is a way, a path that many have trod, yet few have returned.' Jakob said, ignoring Kurt's scorn. 'In the north, at the very north of the world, the gods can be found, it is said.' 'It is said?' scoffed Kurt. 'Said by whom? Old wives?'

  Jakob said nothing, and stood up. Kurt grabbed his arm and spun him around as the shaman took a step away.

  'You are serious?' the Chosen asked. 'This place is real?'

  'In the north, such questions are irrelevant, as you will see,' said Jakob. 'The realm of the gods is a place of dreams. And a place of nightmares.'

  'And if I dare the realm of the gods?' said Kurt, releasing his hold. 'Will they see me again? What will I earn?'

  The shaman grinned, showing the blackened stumps of his teeth.

  'Immortality,' Jakob said.

  Gird woke suddenly, sensing movement close by. He wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the sword beneath the pack he used as a pillow and opened his eyes. Against the light of the twin moons he could see a large shape moving towards him.

  He relaxed as he heard Kurt's whisper.

  'Stay your hand.' the Chosen told him, crouching down next to Gird. 'Get your things together, we're leaving.'

  'Leaving?' he asked, and then noticed that Kurt had his small pack slung across his back. 'Where?'

  'North.' said Kurt, standing up again. Gird could see Undar, Jakob and a few others outside the remnants of the hut that he had taken shelter in, the dying embers of the many fires casting a glow behind them. They were similarly dressed for travelling.

  'What's north?' he asked, sitting up and sheathing his sword. 'Why so quiet?'

  He heard Undar's deep chuckle.

  'The gods,' answered Kurt, stretching out a hand to help Gird to his feet. 'We're going to pick a fight with the gods.'

  Gird's grip loosened and he slumped back onto his backside, and Undar's laugh grew louder.

  'Pick a...' said Gird, and then looked past Kurt to the others. He stood up, his expression one of annoyance. 'I'm in no mood for jokes. Go away and let me get some sleep.'

  'No joke,' said Kurt, striding to the ruined back of the hut where his skeletal banner was propped up against a half-charred log that was once a roof beam. He grasped the standard and thrust it towards Gird, the bones clattering against the wooden stuff, swaying on their rusted metal joints. 'We've got food for you, just grab your spare boots and hunting gear.'

  Gird took the grisly icon without thinking, his brow creased with confusion.

  'I still don't understand,' he said, looking to the others again. 'One of you tell me what's going on.'

  'Just as the Sutenvulf says,' Bayor told him. Once chieftain of the Fjorlingas, Bayor's men had disobeyed his wishes and joined Jolnir's army. Now he was entirely at the mercy of Kurt's whim and not to be trusted to have any reasoned opinion, so Gird turned to Bjordrin, who was also stood with the group.

  Bjordrin had known Kurt ever since the battle at Tungask and had travelled to Nehekhara with him, and was well known amongst the Norse for having a wise head on his broad shoulders. 'What mad idea is this?'

  'Stop asking questions.' Kurt told him, shoving Gird forward with a hand between his shoulders. 'Get ready now, or I'll leave you behind.'

  'What makes you think I want to come with you?' asked Gird, stepping out of Kurt's reach.

  'Who would turn down a chance at immortality?' the Chosen asked, and then smiled as realisation dawned in Gird's eyes. His face grew stern again. 'Besides, I didn't say I'd leave you behind with breath in your body.'

  'You really mean it?' Gird asked, as he handed the standard to Bjordrin and began to rifle through his scattered belongings, taking what he needed and placing it into a small sack. 'We're going to the Gate of the Gods?'

  'What else is worth going north for?' said Kurt, stepping outside into the dim firelight. The runes carved into his skin seemed to glow with their own energy, and his eyes were bright in the darkness. Gird had never felt the breath of the gods, the invisible winds of power that blew across the world, but he could feel the aura of energy that radiated from Kurt at that moment.

  'Why the secrecy?' asked Gird as he slung his sack over his shoulder and stepped through the scattered ash and wood splinters covering the cold ground.

  'Too much trouble to take an army.' explained Kurt as the six of them walked quietly towards the outskirts of the village, heading inland.

  'Anyway, who wants to share?' added Undar as he looked over his shoulder at Gird. 'The less of us, the more glory for each.'

  'And more power.' said Jakob quietly to himself, as he followed in the darkness, unheard by the others.

  For seven days they had headed north, climbing higher and higher into the mountains, searching for a pass. They had been slowed as the vicious wind and snows had closed in, and now on the seventh day they were high up a ridge, the air thin in their lungs, the snow falling fitfully around them.

  Kurt stopped in his stride, knee-deep in a snowdrift, causing Bjordrin to almost stumble into him, half-blinded as he was by the swing blizzard.

  Bjordrin began to ask what was wrong, but Kurt waved a hand for him to stay silent. The chosen warrior listened carefully, attuning himself to the howling of the wind. His instincts had been right; it was not only the wind that howled, there was another sound, a high-pitched wail that seemed to be coming from above.

  Drawing his sword, Kurt stepped back and looked up, the others readying their weapons behind him and following his gaze. Above them, an icy cliff face stretched into the snow and out of sight. There was no sign of how far up it reached. For the last five days they had been steadily climbing along the ridgeline, eking out the supplies they had gathered before they had left and supplementing them with hunting in the foothills.

  'No point standing here freezing.' said Bjordrin, sheathing his sword.

  Kurt hesitated for a moment longer before nodding and pressing on, the unnatural howling silent now.

  The cold affec
ted him and Undar little, but he knew the others were freezing, even wrapped up in their layers of untreated furs, taken from the bodies of the dead deer and wolves they had slain on their way up to the mountain pass. They did not even know where the path they were following would lead them, if it led anywhere at all.

  That was Kurt's worst fear. He could slay any creature or warrior they met, and certainly the others were more than capable in a fight, but there was nothing he could do against the elements or the terrain. It was just as possible that they were slowly winding their way back and forth around the same mountain, having had no reference on the sun for the last three days, its guiding light hidden behind the thick snow clouds. Ahead could be a wide precipice, forcing them to turn back, or perhaps the causeway they were following would simply narrow and disappear altogether.

  And yet there was no point turning back, all they could do was press onwards, and hope that perhaps the next time they felt a downward slope underfoot they would have passed the shoulder of the mountain and were heading into a valley beyond, out of the wind and snow. After that there would be another mountain, and another, and another, for a hundred leagues at least. Beyond the Norscan mountains lay the wastes, and at the centre the realm of the gods. Kurt's heart sank and he turned to Bjordrin behind him, looking for some encouragement.

  'What legends do the Fjaergard have about the Gate of the Gods?' Kurt asked, falling back a couple of steps to walk alongside Bjordrin.

  The Norseman was hunched over, his beard and eyelashes coated with snow, the hood of his cloak pulled tightly around his face to ward off the worst of the blizzard. Kurt remembered when he had been sun-blistered and red only a few months ago, as their longship had lain becalmed off the coast of Araby, tortured by the incessant southern sun. This man had become like a brother to him, even more so since his real brother, Hrolfgar, had been slain defending Fjaergardhold from Ursula's first attack. It was a while before Bjordrin replied, and Kurt thought perhaps he had not been heard, but then Bjordrin spoke up, voice raised above the noise of the snowstorm.