by ich du
Her horse pacing slowly, deliberately, Ursula rode along the line, staring into the faces of the enemy. Few could meet her gaze. The unnatural quiet lasted for several minutes as Ursula walked her horse up the line and back to the centre. She sat there, waiting, as Vapold's heart hammered in his chest. One wrong move and they would both be dead within half a minute.
'Do you wish to parley?' came a distant shout from the officers at the top of the hill.
'Parley?' Ursula shouted back. 'Not with you!'
She reached down and grabbed the hilt of Ulfshard. Pulling the sword free, she held it aloft, its blade wreathed with blue flame. There were gasps and mutterings from all over the hill.
'Men of the Empire!' she shouted. 'You have heard of me. I am the one they call the maiden of Sigmar. I come before you, not to fight, but to speak to you. Heed my words well! Men of the Empire, descendants of almighty Sigmar, I beg you to look into your hearts. Would you raise your weapons against me? Would you bring death to your fellow men while dire creatures and fell enemies gather in our lands?'
Ursula pointed her sword towards the knot of figures at the brow of the hill.
'Your leaders have brought you here to wage war upon your own countrymen,' she continued. 'It is your blood that will be spilt, your homes destroyed, to further their ambitions. You brave men, the lifeblood of our lands, must die while the nobles tax your families and greedy merchants rob your purses.'
She paused again, her eyes unwavering from Count Steinhardt, who stood in a circle of his fellow nobles looking back at her.
'You leaders of the Empire!' she called out. 'You who are entrusted to protect our lands. It is not your right to bring death and famine upon us. It is your sacred duty to uphold that which was created by Sigmar himself. He looks down upon us and weeps at what we have become. A great and terrible foe gathers in the north, unseen by you while you look enviously at the lands of your neighbours. You muster your armies, you draw your blades, not to defend this realm of ours, but to despoil it! I beseech you to hearken to the word of Sigmar. Waste not the blood of your subjects in this self-defeating war.'
'I call upon you all, men of the Empire, brave warriors of Sigmar, to fight the true foe. Wet your blades in the blood of the northmen. Raise your shields against the warriors of the Dark Gods. With faith and steel, we can yet avert the coming disaster. A storm is about to break upon us, and divided, we shall be scattered and broken. United, fighting as one under the glorious gaze of Sigmar himself, we shall prevail. Look to your hearts and your sword arm, and do what is right!'
Ursula turned her horse and rode back past Vapold, looking over at him as she passed.
'It is up to you now,' she said, her face stern, her eyes glittering and hard. 'Do what is right.'
As THE PARLEY continued, the armies uneasily poised across the battlefield from each other, Ruprecht saw Ursula again. She had disappeared back into the forest for several hours after her performance, but was now sitting on her horse towards the rear of the army, looking intently out towards the tent that had been erected for the truce. He walked over and stood beside her.
'So you do care after all,' Ruprecht said, and she turned and looked down at him. Ursula's lips formed an enigmatic, chilling smile.
'Now I have two armies,' she said.
CHAPTER TWO
The Gathering
Northern Steppes, Summer 1712
THE BROTH WAS thick and hot, and Jakob wolfed it down hungrily, the bowl balanced awkwardly on his lap, a deep spoon in his good hand. Seated next to him, Vlamdir ate at a more sedate pace, the exposed muscles of his face expanding and contracting as he chewed. They were sitting on thick woollen rugs inside the tent of Asdubar Hunn, chieftain of the Mendhir, and the old warrior watched them with a mixture of fear and distaste. The walls of the tent, stitched-together elk skins, rippled as the north wind blew across the open steppes, howling outside.
Finishing his soup, Jakob laid his bowl to one side and looked at Asdubar, his golden eye glinting in the light from the small fire pit at the tent's centre. Asdubar returned his gaze coolly. It was clear from their appearance that the pair was marked by the gods, and the chieftain had welcomed them to his tribe accordingly. His hospitality had been flawless, but he had the feeling that food and shelter were not the only things the two men were after.
Messengers had brought news of their coming to him from the Vangirs, and it had not been the first time he had heard their names mentioned. For months, since the beginning of summer, they had been travelling the steppes, moving from tribe to tribe. Some said that they brought the blessings of the gods with them. Others claimed they were raising an army. Some rumours even claimed that they were messengers from the north of the world. Asdubar had dismissed such claims, but now that he looked at them, the shaman's fused hand and staff, the shifting metallic skin of his companion, the chieftain knew that the touch of the gods lay heavily upon them.
'War is coming,' said Jakob, his voice little more than a harsh whisper. 'A great war, a war for the gods! We have come to you, so that the Mendhir might be counted amongst our numbers.'
'War against whom?' Asdubar asked, gesturing for one of his council, the stocky Gengris, to fetch the stoppered jugs of fermented milk that were stored in the corner of the tent. As the jug was passed around the circle of twelve men, each taking a deep gulp of the potent brew, Jakob's normal eye remained fixed on the chieftain.
'Does it matter?' he asked. 'The gods call, men answer. That is the only truth you should need to know.'
'And yet I ask again, war - against whom?' said Asdubar. 'I have heard of you. I have heard that you send men to the west, to the Pass of Kings high in the mountains. It is a long journey for us, and the summer is almost over. We should be preparing for the coming winter, not looking for war.'
'In the south, the winters are less harsh.' said Jakob, accepting the jug of spirits from Vlamdir, who sat silently beside him, his staring eyes looking at the others in the tent. 'There are crops to take, cattle to steal, sheep to slaughter. Come with us, and winter will not be your concern.'
'And who leads this army?' said Asdubar, with a glance towards his companions.
'The Sutenvulf.' said Vlamdir, speaking for the first time since they had sat down. 'The greatest warrior of our times, chosen of the gods.'
'And where is he now?' asked Sudai, the chieftain's nephew who sat opposite Vlamdir. He stroked a hand through his long, oiled black hair, a sneer on his face. 'We have heard your fanciful tales, that he sits with the gods.'
'He does.' said Jakob quietly. 'But he will return, and those who are his followers will reap the rewards of his friendship.'
'And those who refuse to follow?' said Asdubar. 'We will become his enemies?'
Jakob shook his head and looked at the ground for a moment.
'We do not come with threats, but with promises.' he said, not looking up. 'The eyes of the gods will be upon you, as they have been upon us. Their gifts will be bountiful for those who would ally themselves with the Sutenvulf. Join with us, join with him, and your glory shall be sung until the grandchildren of your grandchildren can hear them.'
'Wage war in the name of the gods, and perhaps you too might be granted the immortality of our master.' said Vlamdir.
'And if we refuse?' asked Sudai. 'What then?'
'We will leave and we will go to meet the great one.' said Vlamdir.
Jakob looked up and his golden eye blazed with power.
'The eyes of the gods are upon you, Asdubar Hunn.' the shaman wheezed. 'You have until tomorrow morning to make your choice. Choose wisely, for the favour of the gods will be power and riches, but their displeasure shall see you howling with grief, your tribe split asunder and your children weeping over the bones of their parents.'
Jakob stood, using his staff-hand to lever himself to his feet. The others stood in deference to the shaman, Asdubar standing last.
'Do not let foolish notions cloud your judgement.' Jakob warned. 'The day
of our deliverance is close by, I have seen it in the skies and I have heard it on the winds. The gods call to you, will you listen?'
'I will think on the matter.' Asdubar said, stepping aside and waving his guests towards the flap of the tent. 'By morning you shall know my answer.'
Jakob smiled and nodded, before hobbling across the scattered rugs, his stooped, twisted body moving awkwardly.
As he stepped out into the cool evening air, Jakob breathed deeply. There were thirty or more other tents, each containing at least one and probably two warriors. They were not many, the Mendhir, but every warrior who fought for the army was welcome. For many months he and Vlamdir had travelled the steppes, first to the east, and now heading westwards, back towards Kislev and the Old World. Sometimes whole tribes had heeded the call. Other times only a single warrior, or nobody at all had believed Jakob's prophecy of the return of Sutenvulf and the great invasion that was to come.
Undar and Bjordrin had travelled back to Norsca, to rally the tribes there. Theirs was both an easier and harder task. Many of the chieftains would already know of Kurt and his exploits by now. Some would be willing to strike back against the southerner who had raided their homes and attacked their kin. Others would probably scoff, remembering how Kurt had retreated before the advance of the Empire forces, marshalling his followers.
It mattered not to Jakob. As he stood there, listening to the wind, feeling the breath of the gods around him, he smiled to himself. He knew what true power was now. He could set his spirit free, soaring from his body to glide over the lands, seeking out the scattered tribes in this vast wilderness. The secret of fire was his to command with a few simple words. He did not even need to tap into the power of his rune-stones except for the most difficult rituals.
And he also knew the price to pay for such power. Though the gods had granted him these abilities, Jakob was well aware that it was for their purpose and not his. Kurt had been chosen, and in turn Jakob had been chosen. The gods did not give their gifts lightly and Jakob was no fool. To spurn the task the gods had handed to him was to insult them, and an affront that he was not likely to survive.
He had everything that he had dreamed of, those many years ago when first he had seen the young knight, Kurt Leitzig. He had seen the aura of the youth, the mark of the gods upon him. He had supported the young man, protected and guided him. He had risked his life to help him escape from his foes, and had drawn upon terrifying entities and dangerous powers to help Kurt defeat his foes. Now such things were easy for him to achieve, and other knew it. Once the runt, the outcast, the bastard half-Kislevite who no one would have deigned to spit at, now he was a great shaman and all were wary of him.
The road had been long, and painful. It was not yet finished, but Jakob was content. He was content with the knowledge that he could wander these lands and none would raise a hand against him, out of respect for his prowess and fear of his anger. This was the power that he had always dreamed of.
THE NIGHT SPIRALLED away from Jakob as he lay under the thick blanket of his bedroll, protected by the small tent he shared with Vlamdir. He no longer slept as ordinary men slept, but instead found rest in lying down and allowing his spirit to break free of its mortal bonds. While his fatigued, twisted carcass recovered its strength, his soul would dance upon the clouds and sail upon the winds.
This night the air was heavy, cloying and suffocating to Jakob. There were other voices upon the spirit winds, other presences that danced and flittered around him, just out of sight. In his mind's eye the skies blazed with fire and a sea of blood washed across the world. A great howling rent the air, and on the rocky steppes far below Jakob could see a great pack of hounds, thousands strong. They sat on their haunches and bayed into the night air, their eyes afire, their teeth glittering knives of steel.
Jakob knew what they waited for, though he had never seen them before. As a black sun pulsed against the blazing heavens, the chorus of howls grew louder and louder. Its intensity swept up over Jakob, buoying him further up into the skies, the energy flooding through him. The breath of the gods blew more strongly than before, a great gust of power from the north, and Jakob allowed himself to be carried along on the magical eddy. Far away to the north, just beyond the horizon, lay the Gate of the Gods. There, Jakob knew, the Sutenvulf was waiting, growing in power, biding his time. When his army was ready, when swords and axes unnumbered were raised in his honour, he would return and they would sweep south.
The thought of the war to come soothed Jakob. It calmed his fluttering spirit with its warmth, and he glided gently down towards the ground, swooping over the great mass of crying hounds.
Soon, Jakob realised. Soon he would come back. He must be ready for his return, the shaman thought. He and Vlamdir would travel to the west as quickly as they could, to meet the others. When all was prepared, the Sutenvulf would come back, just as he had foreseen, and the hunting pack of the gods would be unleashed.
THE MORNING WAS sunless and cold, the sky blanketed with a thick layer of dark thunderheads. As the yellowing light of dawn bled across the heavens, Jakob roused himself and stepped out of the tent. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney holes of the tents, bringing the scent of wood and cooking meat. A young boy came running over from the direction of Asdubar's tent and gestured for Jakob to follow, his eyes fearful.
Jakob limped over the hard ground, every tap of his staff sending a vibration running up through the bones of his arm to his shoulder. He ignored his aching joints and muscles, and looked ahead to where a contingent of the Mendhir stood outside the chieftain's tent, Asdubar among them. The leaders face was impassive as Jakob approached, and he nodded in greeting.
'You have your decision?' asked Jakob, eschewing any kind of formality. The visions of the night before had filled him with a sense of urgency and he wanted to waste no time, not even to banter words with the chieftain of the Mendhir.
'I have one question before I make my choice,' Asdubar said with a glance to his counsellors.
'Ask,' hissed Jakob, leaning on his staff.
'I require proof that what you claim is true,' said Asdubar, his gaze now unwavering. 'Is it for the glory of the gods or for your own glory that you wage this war?'
'Proof?' spat Jakob. He stopped and turned as he heard someone behind him. It was Vlamdir, yawning and stretching. 'What proof will convince you?'
'Show us this power you claim the gods have bestowed upon you,' blurted Sudai, earning himself a scowl from his uncle. 'Summon us a herald, so that we might know that this Sutenvulf sits beside the gods.'
'Summon a herald?' said Jakob, turning his unnatural gaze on the youth. 'Such things are not done lightly. Bargains must be made, oaths sworn. Are you ready for such an undertaking?'
'I am,' said Asdubar. Jakob turned his stare on the chieftain.
'I asked the boy,' the shaman snapped. 'He made the request, now he must answer.'
'I am ready,' Sudai said, crossing his arms defiantly.
'Then we will prepare for the ceremony of summoning,' said Jakob. Using his good hand to reach inside his ragged furs, he plucked one of the fist-sized rune-stones from his flesh. He handed it to Sudai, still smeared with the shaman's blood, who juggled it gingerly as if it were a live serpent.
He grabbed the boy by the arm and led him towards the open circle at the centre of the tent village, the others trailing behind. Tribesmen and women were emerging from their tents and word spread of the great conjuration about to occur. Here a great fire pit had been dug, filled with ash. He positioned the boy next to the pit and then Jakob stooped and rubbed a finger along a charred plank. With the soot, he drew a symbol on the boy's forehead, a swirling spiral cut across with a waving line.
Jakob then spat on his hand and lay it atop the rune-stone held in Sudai's outstretched palms. He began to chant, the words harsh and discordant, and he could feel the power of the rune-stone swelling, gathering in the breath of the gods from the air around. Closing his eyes, Jakob could feel the
magic seeping up from the ground, passing through him into the stone and on into the youth. His chanting grew louder, more intricate. The first time he had tried such a spell, it had almost destroyed him. Now the words came easily, the power flowed smoothly from him into the other.
In the tainted vision of the golden orb in his eye socket, Jakob began to see the spell working. Invisible to the normal eye, a shape shimmered around the form of the boy, a pulsing window into another place. Starlight shone through the boy as the glowing portal enveloped him. With a final incantation, Jakob snarled the last words and the portal snapped apart, allowing the thing that dwelt beyond to come through.
There were gasps and shrieks from the Kurgan tribespeople, and Jakob opened his eye. Sudai was quivering madly, steam rising from the rune-stone in his grip. Jakob stepped back a little, one hand still on the rune-stone, and watched as the messenger unfolded itself into the mortal world.
Sudai's eyes were streaming with blood and his mouth was open in a silent scream. His flesh began to writhe and bubble with the presence of the daemon inside him. Crimson streamed from his mouth, his teeth elongated into fangs and his head began to crumble like a deflated wine skin. Oval, purple eyes ruptured the boys face and bony protrusions jutted from his back, tearing his clothes from him.
The youth's legs twisted and folded, growing extra joints, bending unnaturally and lowering him. His arms stretched thinly, his elbows becoming vast knobbles of bone, his muscles wasting away. Light glowed inside his body, a pulsing visual heartbeat that shifted from pink to red to green in a kaleidoscope of colours.
The creature that remained was not at all human, its body formed from raw magic. Its torso sprouted mouths that shouted silently and then sealed again, its whole form in constant change. A tail lashed back and forth, tipped with grasping fingers that scraped at the ground and tossed stones and dust into the air.
With a screech, it tried to bound away from Jakob, but was stopped short. Its hands were stuck to the rune-stone, bound to the will of Jakob. It shrieked and leapt up and down, its body metamorphosing as it attempted to escape, but Jakob held it firm, turning on the spot as it threw itself left and right. The arms changed to legs and the creature tried to pull itself free, a new head sprouting from its tail, snapping with long fangs at Jakob, but he ignored it. The shaman spoke another word, the syllables drawn out in his harsh whisper, and the creature stopped its writhing, as if struck.