by ich du
'I see him.' the seer murmured. 'He is in the town, in a building made of logs.'
'Where is he?' asked Ruprecht. 'Which part of the town?'
'He is not far.' Filandantis replied. 'There is song and laughter. There is a large fire.'
'That's the tavern where we were staying.' Ursula explained with a glance at Marius, whose attention was directed solely at the seer.
'What else do you see?' Marius asked, leaning forward eagerly. 'Are they readying for battle, preparing to flee?'
'I am not sure.' the seer said in a melancholy voice. 'He is hard to see. There is another close by. He has power.' A sudden note of panic entered Filandantis's voice. 'He feels my presence, he is looking back into my mind!'
With a hiss, Filandantis opened his eyes, and the orbs were a pure blood red. He started quivering, and his face twisted into a cruel snarl.
'Turn back, Sigmarite dog!' snarled the seer, rising effortlessly to his feet. He stepped purposefully towards Marius, and Ursula noted with horror that he was walking on top of the snow, leaving only the faintest of prints. When he was within a few paces of the group, the seer reached out a hand towards the three of them. Knights and men-at-arms close by had stopped to watch the horrifying scene unfold, staring spellbound at the jerking, spasmodic advance of the possessed seer.'Go back to your warm lands, he is ours now!'
'What do you mean?' Ursula asked, her voice hoarse with fear.
'Kill it!' snapped Marius, drawing his sword. Ruprecht swung his hammer two-handed, the head connecting with the seer's chin, snapping his neck in an instant. The body stood there for a few heartbeats more, the head lolling back unnaturally, and took another hesitant step forward before collapsing.
'We attack at nightfall!' Marius declared loudly. The sun was already on the horizon and dipping fast. 'We will burn the town to the ground and take the traitor's body from the ashes.'
'No!' shouted Ursula, turning to Marius. 'You said you would give us a chance, you would hear our side of the story.'
'Marius, remember what we discussed?' asked Ruprecht, taking the witch hunter by the arm and walking a few steps away, out of earshot from Ursula. 'If we can take Leitzig without a fight, all the better. Get ready for the attack, but first we try the other plan.'
'He won't come,' Marius stated flatly, stalking off into the camp. Ruprecht took that as a sign of assent and walked back to Ursula.
'How do you think you'll convince him to come out?' Ruprecht asked her. He knew that Marius planned to kill Kurt and her as soon as the renegade knight was in his power, but Ruprecht would try to stay his hand and ensure they were properly tried, as Ursula had requested. Though he had helped Marius hunt her for the best part of half a year, Ruprecht was convinced by her story. She was nothing more than an unwitting pawn between the two men, and had no malice in her. Marius could do what he liked with Kurt; whatever else he was still a deserter and a murderer. The girl, on the other hand, had simply been swept up in events beyond her control, or so Ruprecht believed.
'Kurt has been lost for so many months now, listening to me or Jakob, it won't be difficult to convince him.' said Ursula. 'As long as I can speak to him away from the weasel, Jakob, there should be no problems.'
'You make him sound weak-willed for someone who has gone to such extraordinary lengths to protect you.' Ruprecht countered. 'I don't think you know him as well as you say.'
'He has no idea what he is really doing.' Ursula confided. 'He completely imagined the danger I was in, and dashed off to rescue me without any thought. He hasn't got a plan, he doesn't know what he wants to do. Like me, he's just tired of running. I can persuade him to put down his sword and offer himself up to the mercy of Sigmar. I know I can.'
'I hope you're right, because if not, there's only going to be one of three ways to end this.' Ruprecht said.
'And what are they?' asked Ursula.
'Either Marius kills Kurt.' Ruprecht explained. 'Or Kurt kills Marius.'
'And the third option?' Ursula asked.
'They kill each other.' Ruprecht replied bluntly, avoiding her gaze.
'Then all the more reason for me to get him to come peacefully, for I do not want any more blood on my hands.' Ursula said confidently.
'I really do hope you're right.' Ruprecht said again. 'For five months I've trailed you through fen and forest, and from what you say, it is because of nothing.'
'Nothing to us.' Ursula corrected him. 'Don't forget that Marius did kill Kurt's family. In many ways, he has brought this all down upon us.'
'Don't blame Marius for this.' argued Ruprecht. 'He's only said it once, but he told me that his wife was killed by Kurt's father. I don't know the details, but I've never known Marius to be wrong in these matters, and I have followed him for many years.'
'Let us not argue over events over which we have no control, and which we know nothing about.' said Ursula. 'As you say, Kurt and Marius cannot resolve this, it is up to those of us, you and I, with more level heads and less at stake.'
'Your life is still at stake should you go on trial.' Ruprecht pointed out.
'I trust in Sigmar.' Ursula replied. 'He will continue to protect me.'
But will he continue to protect Kurt, thought Ruprecht. Not if Marius had his way.
KURT WAS DOZING on his bed in the room above the tavern when an urgent knocking at his door broke his slumber. The red haze of sunset was glowing through the unshuttered window. He had been sleeping since midday. He was tired to the bone, and sadness over his inability to rescue Ursula wrapped his soul like the blankets covering his body. He had argued long with the Norscans but had been unable to persuade them to stay. Frustrated and exhausted, he had gone to bed and left Jakob to convince them that fleeing was not an option. Now Jakob pushed the door open and poked his head through.
'I have answer.' the Norscan said cautiously as Kurt sat up and beckoned him in.
'You do?' Kurt said, throwing back the bedclothes and swinging his legs free.
'I speak to others of my people in Tungask.' explained Jakob, though without much enthusiasm. 'Most born here, but some of older men move here from Norsca. We talk about what you say earlier. I think there way to get gods to reveal their will to us.'
'There is?' Kurt asked, standing up quickly and grabbing his shirt from the chair next to the bed.
'Very dangerous.' warned Jakob. 'You might die. I might die. With the gods, everyone might die, there is no saying.'
'As things stand, Marius will kill us all, anyway.' Kurt pointed out. 'I will risk whatever is necessary to even the odds against us.'
'Greatest danger to you.' Jakob said, though he was more concerned about the risks he would be facing. His close brush with the daemon in the forests only the day before was still fresh in his mind.
'Tell me what I need to do.' Kurt insisted as he finished getting dressed.
'You come with me.' Jakob said. 'I know you say yes, so I tell others to start preparing for ceremony.'
'What ceremony?' Kurt asked, suddenly suspicious.
'We ask gods to make you protector for us.' Jakob explained. 'They give you power.'
'The gods do not give gifts freely, that much I learnt from you.' said Kurt, picking up his breastplate.
'Not need armour, need spirit.' said Jakob, striding across the room and taking Kurt's armour from him. 'Armour your mind, not your body.'
'What is this ceremony?' Kurt asked again. 'What do I have to do?'
'You follow me, must be quick, I send scouts in woods to watch witch hunter, and they say he is close.' Jakob said, pulling Kurt towards the door. 'We already have made preparations.'
The Norscan led Kurt down the stairs and out of the tavern into the snow-swept open area around the trading post. Kurt saw that many of the Norscans of the town were busy building a great fire, piling logs into a pyre in the middle of the open ground. Hrolfgar and his men were standing to one side watching the proceedings. The other northmen and women gave Kurt curious glances of fear, distrus
t and hope. He couldn't blame them. He had brought this madman from the south to their homes, and was now offering himself up as their only salvation from the terrible blood and fire of vengeance that van Diesl would visit upon the town.
'You're doing this right here, in the middle of town?' asked Kurt. 'What are you planning to do?'
'This not great secret like in Empire.' Jakob explained hurriedly, pushing Kurt out into the square. 'This great ceremony in honour of gods, like the southern holy days.'
'Tell me what I have to do.' insisted Kurt as Jakob led him towards the fire.
'Take off clothes.' Jakob said, pulling at Kurt's shirt.
'I'll freeze.' Kurt complained, yanking Jakob's arm away.
'Warrior of the gods not frightened by snow.' sneered Jakob. 'Must be stronger than this if you want to rescue your woman. Worse than freezing can happen to you tonight.'
Stung by Jakob's words, Kurt divested himself of his clothes and stood shivering in the cold, self-conscious under the gaze of the gathered Norscans. It was not long before the great fire was lit, and as the flames began to spread and tower into the air their warmth swept over Kurt. Jakob was consulting with some of the oldest Norscans, wizened old men whose hair and beards were long and flowing and woven into intricate plaits. The skinny Norseman returned with a long knife, its blade carved with odd runes. In his other hand, he held a pouch.
'What have you got there?' asked Kurt, reaching for the pouch, but Jakob snatched it away.
'No more talk, concentrate, think of the gods.' Jakob chided him. He knelt down in the snow and using the point of the dagger cut a swirling line into Kurt's foot. Blood welled up from the cut and ran in drops down into the snow. Kurt closed his eyes and ignored the bite of the knife as Jakob continued his bloody work, cutting thin, delicate lines and shapes into Kurt's flesh. Soon Kurt could feel blood dribbling down over his legs, chest and arms. He opened his eyes again when Jakob started on his face, but held himself still as the northman carved a rune onto each cheek and onto Kurt's forehead. Blood began to stream into his eyes and congeal on his lips, the taste bitter.
Kurt had been concentrating on the knife so much he had not heard the slow beat of drums beginning. Glancing around, he saw three of the Norscans pounding out a slow beat, in time to his own heart. Jakob began to chant to the time of the drums, grabbing the rune stones from his pouch and holding them in his hands. He saw warm light spilling from between Jakob's fingers as he spoke in a tongue that Kurt could not understand, and could barely make out the words. He did however recognise four words: the names of the Dark Gods of the north; Khar, the lord of skulls and god of battle; Jaenz, the changer of the ways, god of magic; Slaeresh, the dark prince, god of passions and pleasure, and finally, there was Nierg, lord of decay, god of plague and famine.
Looking at Jakob's face, he saw that the shaman was sweating blood; it dripped in small amounts from his forehead, prickling on his skin. The flames of the fire began to burn with different colours, the orange flames tainted by greens and blues. The drumming grew louder and Kurt felt the cuts in his skin begin to burn, gently at first, but growing more painful. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth and the fire began to eat its way through the cuts into his veins.
CHANTING LOUDER AND louder, accompanied by the drumbeats and prayers of the other Norsemen, Jakob circled Kurt, spilling the rune stones from his hands in a rough circle around the chosen warrior. They glowed with bright blue light, more powerful than before, and the snow hissed and steamed. He could feel the breath of the gods blowing stronger, at the back of his eyes seeing wisps of energy coalescing around Kurt. The power seethed up from the ground beneath Jakob, and down from the cloud-heavy skies above. A break in the clouds allowed the light of Morrslieb to shine through, emitting an eerie green light that bathed the whole town in its glow, and Jakob felt a rush of energy.
Jakob spasmed with the power that flooded through his limbs and mind, falling to his knees, and swirling images filled his head. He saw endless ranks of warriors marching through bloody snow, their axes and swords drenched in gore. He saw strange beasts bellowing praise into the night and skeletons dressed in ornate gold armour stalking across ancient sandstone ruins. He heard the cries of wild creatures surging beneath the waves of the Great Ocean. All of this flashed through Jakob's mind in an instant, the intensity, the sight, the smell and the touch of it so vividly real, he felt himself trembling. Pushing the images away, he looked at Kurt, and concentrated on the words he had to say to bind the power of the gods into this mortal vessel before him.
THE FIRE WITHIN his blood writhed through Kurt, burning his heart, searing his lungs and scorching his brain. His whole body was awash with pain, and he cried out through gritted teeth. Opening his eyes, he looked at the burning pyre, at the leaping flames that swirled in and out of focus. The buildings around him began to swim in his vision, merging with the flames into a vortex of magical flame and shadow. Still the internal fire burned within him, growing in strength, surging through his veins, through his muscles, into his fingers and out of his eyes.
The spinning landscape began to coalesce into strange forms: flitting three-headed fish, amorphous clouds of energy with teeth, and leering faces with burning eyes of flame. A shadowy creature swept at him out of the light, its lashing claws aimed for his face. He ducked as it dived towards him, throwing himself to the ground as it swept overhead. Something touched his leg and he looked to see a twin-headed serpent coiling around his thigh, its skin barbed with hundreds of tiny hooks that tore at his flesh. Ripping his leg free in a shower of blood, Kurt forced himself to stand again, and looked down at his own naked body. The runes Jakob had drawn on him were burning with energy, each a fine line of pulsing magical power that crawled across his skin. Another daemonic creature flew at him, a jewel-eyed woman with long flowing fangs and scything claws. He raised his fist and the creature veered aside at the last moment, dissipating into a scented mist that rose into the air leaving behind the smell of flowers and blood.
Kurt felt the circle of creatures closing in around him, and could sense their hunger for his flesh and spirit. As fear crept into his mind, he felt the fire within him beginning to dull. The runes began to flicker and fade, and he realised this was the danger Jakob had warned him of. His was filled with the power of the gods and it protected him, but if he was to let it go, then the daemons would descend on him in a frenzied cloud and devour him.
Summoning all his energy and will, he concentrated on the fire that burned inside. He thought of it feeding off the breath of the gods as a normal fire feeds on a slight breeze. Once more, he felt the energy swirling into him. Mastering the pain, he began to laugh. He felt the breath of the gods and heard their whispers in the back of his mind. They taunted him. They praised him. They laughed. They bellowed in anger.
Kurt's vision began to clear and with a last effort, he reached out his right hand towards the emerging sight of the fire. He imagined the flames as his armour and sword and the multi-coloured fires leapt through the air towards him, surrounding him yet not burning him. The fire inside his body was hotter and he used that power he now felt to pull the flames into his flesh, the magical energies seeping into sinew and muscle, strengthening his bones, moulding into his eyes and ears and nose.
With a thunderous finale, the drumming crashed and then fell silent. Kurt collapsed to his knees, panting hard. Jakob lay next to him, unconscious, blood dribbling from his nose, ears and eyes. Kurt pushed himself to his feet, noticing as he did so that the cuts inflicted on him by Jakob were now no more than thin traces on his skin, a pinkish-red like the scar left by a burn. Glancing at the pyre, he saw that the fire was dead, nothing more than smouldering ashes as if it had been burning for many days rather than just a short while. The clouds were thinning as well, a strong northerly wind breaking them up to let through the rays of Morrslieb, the daemon moon. Disorientated, unsure how long he had been away from the world, Kurt looked around the assembled Norscans. His gaze fell o
n Hrolfgar. The tall marauder was stood with his arms crossed, his face impassive. Kurt strode across the bare ground, and the snow hissed into steam under his tread.
'Will you swear to follow me?' Kurt asked, and his voice was louder and deeper than before, carrying across the night sky like a thunderstrike.
'You have survived,' Hrolfgar admitted. 'But you must still prove your worth.'
'Which of your men would you have me challenge?' Kurt said, looking at the assembled warriors. Some looked eager for a fight, others met his gaze with looks of fear, while one of them, the chieftain's brother Bjordrin, had an exultant look on his face.
'I will fight you!' called out one named Kjarl, stepping forward. He was one of the youngest of the marauders, but Kurt could see that he was strong and fast. His face was covered with the first touches of a beard and he carried a sword in his hands, its hilt wrought in the shape of a coiling serpent.
'Then strike me.' Kurt said confident, arms spread wide. Kjarl glanced at Hrolfgar, who nodded, and then drove his sword towards Kurt's midriff. To Kurt the blow moved at a snail's pace, giving him plenty of time to react. Everything seemed to move slower now, or perhaps it was just that he could now move that much faster than a normal man. Kurt's hand flashed out and smashed the blade from Kjarl's grasp, flinging it into the snow. There was no mark on his hand.
'Try harder.' Kurt said, darting a sidelong glance at Hrolfgar, who remained unimpressed. Kjarl picked up his sword and stood in front of Kurt again. This time he attacked with an overhead cut aimed at Kurt's left shoulder, but Kurt swayed to one side and grabbed the blade in his fist. Blood trickled from between his fingers. Gripping his sword two-handed, Kjarl tried to pull it free, but Kurt stood there relaxed, and held the blade in a grip as tight as a blacksmith's vice. With a flick of his arm, he pulled the sword free, flipped it in the air and caught it by the hilt.