Slaves to Darkness 03 (The Heart of Chaos)

by Warhammer

  Had Kurt really survived? Jakob remembered the cryptic words of the daemon he had summoned for Asdubar Hunn. Perhaps it had meant that Kurt was dead. Where was a place that was no place, if not the realm where the souls of the slain were sent?

  These thoughts and others assailed Jakob as he walked between the clusters of tents and fires, meandering between the conversations of the assembled marauders. He could feel their distrust as they saw him, their loathing. They had travelled far, risked their lives on his word, and now it seemed as if he had been wrong.

  But it was not all bad, he considered. He had gathered the army. Perhaps he had been wrong, perhaps it was meant for another to lead the host of the gods. Kurt may have been spurned, or maybe he had failed in some other way?

  And yet the simple truth was that Jakob believed. He believed, in that moment of insight the gods had granted him, when their storm had engulfed Kurt and swept him away. Had not Khar sent his hounds to guide Kurt?

  But then again, the flesh hounds had left without him. Was that what had happened? Was Kurt still wandering those wastes, searching for the gate, lost and alone? Another doubt crept into Jakob's mind.

  Had it been right for them to turn back, to leave Kurt to his fate?

  He had felt so assured at the time, certain in the knowledge that it was by the will of the gods that Kurt had been taken from them. Or had it been his selfishness? He had achieved the power he craved, and perhaps part of him had wanted to return, to risk no more in those dread lands. Had he already betrayed the gods?

  Each grim thought was followed by another as he dragged himself across the snow-covered ground, the staff fused to his hand leaving a furrow in his wake.

  What would become of him once a new leader had been chosen? Would Hors or Kul continue to support him? They had no ties of loyalty to Jakob, and each had his own shamans to call upon. Would they view him as a threat?

  This thought scared Jakob more than any other. For so many months he had been filled with purpose, with a destiny. It had made the long years of hardship he had endured seem like a distant memory. But really, what should he have expected, a mere bastard half-Norse who had tried to claim the power of the gods through Kurt's endeavours? Would he be scorned again, the fear and respect that he had enjoyed forgotten quickly as those around him recalled the great promises he had made but failed to deliver?

  Jakob tried to hurry, but his crippled body would move no faster. He wanted to seek out Undar, and Orst and the others. They would protect him if things turned ill. If not, they would surely let him escape the clutches of the enemies that were even now choosing to usurp him. They had as much to lose, they had all spread the word of Kurt's triumphant return and the glorious conquest to come. Jakob stopped short, a new fear rising in his mind.

  They had followed him. Undar, Bjordrin and the others had done what Jakob had asked of them, on the same promise. What if they too felt betrayed by his inability to bring about Kurt's return? Would they really offer him succour, or would they cast him to the wolves, or even worse?

  I should flee, Jakob thought. I need to leave here before they come for me.

  A commotion further down the valley cut through his paranoia. There were shouts of alarm and amazement echoing along the walls of the pass. Concentrating, Jakob could see men running to and fro, yelling to each other.

  Broken from the cycle of self-doubts, Jakob now noticed something else, a change in the air, a different current carried on the breath of the gods. He could smell blood, hot blood. Gazing up into the sky, he could not locate the source, but it grew stronger with each passing second. As the sensation grew, so too did the cries of alarm. Looking down the valley again, Jakob's othersight detected something new, something ancient and dreadful.

  He saw red shapes streaking across the snow, scattering the Norse and Kurgan in all directions as they ran in terror from the apparitions. There were eight of them, moving fast, coming directly up the pass. Jakob's heart leapt with joy and he gave a shout, raising his arms into the air.

  'The hounds!' he shouted. 'The hounds are here!'

  The warriors around him gave him bemused glances, but they turned to looks of fear and awe as they saw the bloodied creatures racing up the pass towards them. Jakob turned and began to shuffle back towards the gathering of champions and chieftains, wishing he could move faster.

  He was halfway back when the hounds passed him, slavering and growling as they loped along on unnaturally swift limbs, their white eyes glowing with power. Ahead Jakob could see the crowd of war leaders jumping up from their seats, pointing down the hill towards him. Laughing, Jakob pushed himself onwards, and as he neared the fire, he felt a chill for the first time.

  The hounds were sitting in a circle, each facing in towards the fire. The men of the steppes and Norsca had withdrawn a stone's throw away, eying the daemonic beasts warily. They looked at Jakob as he gasped and huffed his way into the circle. There were more gasps and amazed shouts. Seeing that they gazed into the sky, Jakob turned and looked upwards. The shock of what he saw made his legs weak and he collapsed to his backside, numbed.

  Above the mountains a great shadow was rising, blotting out the light of the sun.

  It was the errant moon, known in the Empire as Morrslieb, to many of the Norse as Tcharlit, in the east as Fung-Tzeng, and by a hundred other names besides. Irregular in shape and erratic in orbit, the green moon was seen by most as an ill omen, except in the north where it was regarded as the eye of the gods.

  Now it rose up into the sky, fuller than Jakob had ever seen it. The breath of the gods blew even stronger around him, almost physically battering at the shaman. Slowly the shadow crept further and further up the pass, engulfing the army in darkness. There were bestial shouts from the wild creatures that had gathered in the pass, and cries of delight and dismay from the Norse and the Kurgan.

  Slowly the moon swallowed up the life-giving energies of the sun, swathing everything in twilight, the temperature dropping rapidly. Day became night and shadows as black as pitch swathed the pass.

  Behind Jakob the hounds pulled back their heads and howled, a thunderous bass noise that made the ground tremble. The light of the gathering fire flickered and dimmed, and then died completely. An utter darkness descended upon the army, so complete that he could not see his hand an inch in front of his face. All that could be seen were the eight glowing pairs of eyes of Khar's hounds.

  Then the terror began.

  The horses whinnied in the darkness and there were cries of utter dread. Jakob felt it grip his soul, a wrenching fear that was utter and eternal. He felt sick and rolled on to his stomach, his face buried in his hands, whimpering like a babe.

  'As promised, I have returned.'

  Jakob pulled his hands away as the terror subsided, and rolled over at the sound of the voice. It was strangely familiar, like something from a half-remembered dream. He looked up and could still see nothing but blackness.

  Except for two more glittering orbs amongst the eyes of the hounds, burning with dark fire.

  A ray of sun broke from behind the shrouding moon as it continued its ascent, and the darkness seemed to shatter. A pool of shadow remained for a moment longer, and then resolved itself into a more discernable form.

  It stood three times the height of a man, large bat-like wings spread wide from its back. Its skin was crimson and shimmered with magical energy, oozing blood from its unnatural pores. Its face was narrow, heavily boned, and as it opened its fanged maw a long, forked tongue slithered over razor-sharp teeth. Its bestial face was framed by a mane of shaggy black hair that stretched down its back between its wings. It reached down towards Jakob, extending a clawed hand towards him.

  A sense of overwhelming joy flooded though Jakob and he grasped the outstretched talon and was pulled gently to his feet.

  'Kurt?' Jakob whispered, staring up into the massive face. The daemon prince's lips twisted into a smile.

  'Kurt is no more. I am your master now. I am Sutenvul
f Daemonkin.'

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Northwards to Battle

  Wolfenburg, Late summer 1712

  Johannes had a deep feeling of dread as he watched the sunlight fade, swathing the castle in darkness. He could hear screams from outside, in the city, and excited shouts from all around him. He paid them no attention, staring at the blot sweeping across the sky, his hand shielding his eyes from what little sunlight remained.

  In a few more heartbeats, there was darkness.

  The shouting was growing louder, closer and Johannes heard yells from the castle walls. Soldiers were running along the ramparts, pointing outside. Spurred into action, Johannes raced to the nearest steps, bounding up them two at a time. He ran to the edge of the wall and looked over.

  From all around, people were converging in the wide plaza that surrounded the keep. The distraught inhabitants of Wolfenburg were converging on the castle and the air was filled with their cries of dread. The few guards outside fled from them and with a thud the gates were swung shut as the mob poured forwards.

  Soon there were hundreds of people outside, as the sun began to show itself once more, the watery light cascading down onto the crowd below. Johannes looked around, seeking Count Vapold. He spied the noble in the courtyard still, standing transfixed, looking up at the sky.

  The mob's fear was turning to anger, their shouted demands incoherent, and as others entered the plaza, they were forced forwards up to the castle walls itself. More and more of them came in, and Johannes could see that some were armed. Those by the gate were beating on it with fists and stones, demanding to see the count. Others were desperately pushing back against the human tide, trying to avoid being crushed against the merciless stone.

  Johannes looked in horror as one woman fell into the living morass, trampled by the press of bodies behind her. Fighting broke out as a man tried to claw his way to reach her, but there was no space. Punches were thrown and as the man flailed to rescue his companion, others joined the fray. Back and forth the mass seethed, and soon the anger was again joined by shouts of terror.

  Stones and sticks began to clatter against the wall as angry city folk lobbed the improvised missiles towards the guards who were standing on the walls, staring aghast and helpless at the chaos below.

  Johannes ran to the inner edge of the parapet and gave a shout to attract attention.

  'Lord!' he cried. 'Count Vapold!'

  The ruler of Wolfenburg did not seem to hear and Johannes's desperation grew. Someone needed to speak to the people. Moving back to the battlements, Johannes looked out again, undecided as to what to do.

  'Get back!' he called out, cupping his hands around his mouth.

  A stone splintered on the parapet just below Johannes, causing him to flinch. He called out again, but the sea of people below was oblivious to his cries. And then, as he watched, he saw the mob quieting, and a stillness spread out as people realised that something was happening. The struggles and fights died down, until total stillness had descended across the mob. Johannes realised they were looking at the gate towers and he turned to see what had caught their attention. Johannes's breath caught short in his throat.

  Ursula stood upon the battlements, her polished armour gleaming in the growing light. In her hand, Ulfshard blazed with its own fire. From the gates below, calm washed outwards over the desperate people, as they stared in fascination at the vision before them. Silence descended, broken by the wounded groaning of those who had been crushed or assaulted. Ursula said nothing, and simply stood there, her elven blade raised above her head. Slowly, she lowered the gleaming sword.

  'Be at peace!' she shouted, her voice carrying clear and strong. 'Loyal people of Wolfenburg, listen to me!

  I know you are afraid. I know that this is a terrible thing to behold. I understand your fear, your doubts, your questions. Yet be at peace. This is not the way to find your answers. Look at yourselves, and find the strength inside each of you. Do not give in to the weaknesses of dread and disbelief. Find courage within yourselves to face these terrible signs.'

  'I will not lie to you! This is a portent of foul things to come. You know that, and that is why you are here. But I beg you to resist the temptation of panic. I am here to show you that Sigmar sees your plight. Forget your desperation, and be comforted by his watchfulness. He yet protects you, as do I.'

  'You know me, I am the maiden of Sigmar. Have faith and we will overcome the woes that have befallen us. Look to yourselves for the strength to endure in the dark times ahead, and look to our lord Sigmar to grant you his strength in these troubling times. You have heard many things these past few months, and doubt and uncertainty have become the way of things. No more! Here, in front of you all, I make a solemn vow.'

  'I pledge upon my life and soul that while I still draw breath, I will let no harm come to you.'

  A ripple of cheering began to spread through the crowd, growing in volume into a tumultuous roaring of approval. Hope had replaced fear, and the citizens of Wolfenburg vented their emotions loudly. Standing over the crowd, Ursula sheathed Ulfshard and raised her hands. Slowly, reluctantly, the clamour died down.

  'Go back to your homes now.' she told the people. 'Speak to your families, your loved ones. Spread this message across the city, across Ostland. War will soon be upon us, but Sigmar will grant us victory! Prepare yourselves for the fight ahead. Steel your souls against the darkness, and embrace the light of faith. As long as we stand with courage in our hearts and steel in our hands, our foes will know the bitter taste of defeat.'

  She turned and stepped off the parapet as the shouting and cheering rose up again, engulfing the castle. Inside the keep soldiers were cheering also, waving their weapons in the air. Having regained his composure, Count Vapold waited at the bottom of the steps as Ursula descended, clapping enthusiastically. He stepped forward to speak to her but she did not break her stride, walking straight past the count without even a glance in his direction. Vapold frowned at her back as Ursula walked across the courtyard and disappeared into the main hall.

  A soldier passing Johannes slapped a hand to his shoulder, grinning widely.

  'With the maiden beside us, we can't lose.' he said, his eyes filled with excitement.

  'No.' said Johannes, nodding and smiling, one eye still on Vapold who was standing in the courtyard calling for Captain Felsturm. 'No we can't.'

  Yet again the audience chamber of Wolfenburg castle was filled with activity. Officers from Vapold's army and Count Steinhardt's aides came and went, carrying sheaves of papers and armfuls of ledgers.

  Since the eclipse, the leaders of the two provinces had been deep in preparation for the coming war. Steinhardt had already sent word back to his army at Bechafen to make ready for another long march. His army would join Vapold's in northern Ostland and together they would stand against the horde about to be unleashed upon the Empire.

  Riders were also sent further north, to Kislev, to warn about the encroaching threat. The messengers took with them missives to the Tsar, asking him to send out his scouts to trail the northmen, and to lend whatever aid he could. They also asked permission to cross into Kislevite lands, if it was necessary, so that the foe could be brought to battle at the most advantageous position. The riders were told to travel as swiftly as possible and return with the Tsar's reply with all speed.

  If the build-up to the fight against Steinhardt had been industrious, the effort put into this new war was nothing short of miraculous. With the memory of the darkened sky still in their minds, and the countryside plagued with stories of beastmen and other creatures gathering in the forests in great numbers, the people of Wolfenburg and the surrounding town worked feverishly to ready the greatest army they could muster.

  Supplies were brought in from all over the province as every mill that still stood worked day and night to grind the early harvest. The chimneys of the bakeries filled the sky with smoke as hardened loaves, the staple of any army's diet, were loaded in their thousands onto a s
teady train of wagons and carts that poured into and out of Wolfenburg. Whole herds were slaughtered to feed the growing army, warehouses were emptied and turned to salting houses to preserve the tons of meat.

  Heralds of the count rode north, to warn the burgomeisters and mayors to prepare for the coming of the army, to load their storehouses with whatever provisions they had and to assemble every able-bodied man they could. The recruiters travelled back and forth across the province, accompanied by armed guards to protect the chests of silver they carried with them, the first wages of any man who would sign up for service to the count.

  Ostland was bleeding itself dry, risking famine and starvation in the coming winter. There was no alternative, for even slow starvation was preferable to death or worse at the hands of the northmen.

  As the war gathered momentum, the story-tellers and minstrels plied their trade, earning their keep with old tales of the battles of the past. They horrified their listeners with epic poems about the deprivations of the Blood-terror and steeled their resolve with accounts of the great siege of Bechafen. They recalled the ancient times when Sigmar himself had walked these lands and, with his allies, waged war against the Norsci, driving them into the bleak north.

  A vast training field was created outside the city, swathes of the forest cut down to make room for the growing encampment, the wood used to fuel the fires and forges burning constantly in the city. In their hundreds the newcomers made their way to the capital, some in twos and threes, daring the perils of the forests. Others arrived in large groups, the menfolk of whole villages setting off together, entrusting the safety of their loved ones to the gods.

  During the hours of daytime, the training field was thronged with the recruits. As they arrived they were handed their uniforms, quickly woven on the looms of Wolfenburg and crudely dyed in faded black, and organised into new regiments. The field rang with swordplay and the shouts of men practising with halberds and spears. To the shouts of the sergeants, the newcomers, many of them youths barely fifteen and sixteen years old, learned to drill with handguns and crossbows. Hunters from the forests were formed up as archers, and would be tasked with continuing to supply the army once it was on the march.