by ich du
Faster and faster the winds swirled, the clouds in the sky spiralling and darkening above the circle of shamans. The storm clouds began to grow and thicken, turning black and dangerous. A clap of thunder rolled across the tundra as Jakob concentrated his will, exerted his demands upon the raw elements. Lightning began to flicker, an occasional bolt at first, but growing in intensity until the heavens were alight with flashing bolts of energy, the sky shaking with a constant rolling thunder.
Rain began to fall, and within moments it pounded down across the plains, soaking the warriors of the Vangir, the Aster, the Baersonlings and all the other tribes besides, as they stood looking up at the magical storm. The wind grew chill, and soon the breath of the thousands of warriors was carving vaporous shapes in the icy air.
The rain turned to sleet and hail, and shields and cloaks were raised by the gathered warriors to protect them from the downpour of icy water. Then the first flakes of snow began to drift down, as small flurries at first, melting as they fell. Soon though, the snow began to settle, drifting over the men and land in a thin white veneer. On and on it came down, driven by the strong winds into covered faces, and men stood hugging their arms about themselves, stamping their feet in the frigid conditions.
With a shuddering gasp, Jakob collapsed to the ground, exhausted by the immense spell. He coughed blood into the snow layering onto the ground. Around him the ice hissed into steam where the rune-stones were placed, a fiery glow emanating from them.
Sutenvulf stepped forward and stooped to pick up Jakob's inert form. Snow steamed from his unnatural form, hissing and crackling. Cradling the unconscious shaman in one arm, the daemon prince pointed to the south.
'Onwards. Let nothing hinder you. Let my hunger for revenge drive you forward as it drives me. The Empire lies beyond the horizon, where war and glory await. Let the gods be your spur, so that we might fall swiftly upon the foe. We are the wolves of the north, and our hunger is without end, Onwards on swift limbs, to glory and death.'
SHROUDED BY THE snowstorm, the army continued south. Having been born and raised in the harsh climate of the north, the blizzard conditions were no hindrance to the marauders. With the wind at their backs, they walked and rode on stubbornly, mile after mile. As the day wore on into afternoon, riders returned from ahead, having found a small, ruined town a few miles to the west, with a bridge across the icy water. The army turned and as darkness fell it came to the river and they caught up with the Kurgan tribesmen, who had decided not to cross the river, not wishing to be separated from the main body of the horde.
Sutenvulf led them west, and as they entered the town night was falling. He commanded them to take what rest and shelter they could. Much of the town was little more than burned-out shells hidden in drifts of snow, but some twenty buildings still stood, surrounding a small square. There was much arguing and fighting between the warbands over possession of the precious respite from the storm that these offered, but there was one that none contested, claimed by Sutenvulf as his own. While his followers made what provision they could, his favoured few entered their shelter.
With them were Undar, Hors and Gird. In the dim light from the rune-stones fused into Jakob, the group could see that they were inside a tavern, the wide room filled with long tables and benches, a counter covered with dust stretching in front of one wall. Bjordrin and Jakob exchanged glances, and the shaman began to laugh. They took off their packs and pushed them under the tables. As one they turned at a crashing noise from outside.
Wood and stone splintered as Sutenvulf ducked into the doorway, bent nearly double. Wings tightly folded against his back, he heaved himself through the small gap, ripping off the frame with his shoulders. Scattering the broken wood, he stepped forward, still crouched. He then stood, one arm raised above his head, and pushed through the ceiling above, splinters and shards of floor boards dropping around him. Tearing at the storey above, he cleared a space tall enough for him to stand, looking down at his companions through the ragged hole. He turned his head and looked at Jakob.
'Do you know where we are?'
The shaman nodded, still cackling.
'Tungask,' Bjordrin said, pacing around the room. He glanced at the benches and tables and then sat down at one. He chuckled and pointed at the bench opposite. 'I was sitting here, and you were there, when you called my brother a coward. You were Sutenmjar then.'
'Yes, the southern pup. I long thought it was here that my journey began, but I was wrong. It had already started fifteen years earlier, when the witch hunter murdered my family. Before then, since my birth, I have been walking this path, though I did not know it.'
'Your saga has grown long since that day,' said Jakob, sitting himself next to Bjordrin.
There was a hint of sadness in Sutenvulf's face when he next spoke, the fire in his eyes dimmed.
'My wife and son would have been proud.'
He raised his gaze to them and the flickering light within them grew bright again.
'We are close to my revenge. Four days south of here lies the Lynsk, a wide river that can only be crossed by bridge or ford. Our foes lie south of there. They will be waiting for you, you must be bold, but you must also be cunning.'
The daemon prince turned his fiery gaze upon Hors, who had lit a small fire in the grate at the far end of the room. The Norseman picked up a chair and smashed it against the hard flags of the floor. He tossed the wood into the fireplace and crouched down, warming his hands. Noticing the silence that had descended on the room he turned round to see Sutenvulf's burning eyes staring at him. Hors smiled weakly.
'I was listening,' he said. 'We must be cunning, you were saying.'
'You must find the foe, where he will make his stand. Will it be at the river, or on the plains? Is he gathered in one force, or is he divided? Count his warriors and plan. My warriors are brave and seek glory, but I demand more. I demand victory, and that requires patience and thought.'
'You speak as if you won't be there.' said Undar.
'I will leave you briefly but I will return. East of here lies the city of Praag. We passed far west of it, but when the Kislevites realise that we have avoided them, they will follow us. You must guard against attack from behind.'
'Where are you going?' asked Jakob. 'When will you be back?'
'Look for me when the sun is drenched in blood and I will be there. There is something that only I can do, a task that I must perform.'
Sutenvulf leaned forward and seemed to grow. Dread filled the room as he exerted his will.
'The girl is not to be killed. She is mine and mine alone to deal with. Once we have crushed her army and I have dealt with her, we go further south. The lands of the Empire are open and vulnerable to our desires. We shall wage a war upon the misguided fools such has not been seen since the time of your forefathers.'
Nobody replied, awed into silence by the aura of their inhuman master. As Sutenvulf shuffled to the door, they stood and followed. Squeezing himself back outside, the daemon prince opened his wings and leapt into the snow-filled night. Whorls carved in the snowstorm marked his progress as he climbed into the air, and a few moments later, he was gone. Lupine shapes moved in the darkness, and with barely a sound, Sutenvulfs hounds ran into the night after their master.
They returned to the benches, each quiet with his own thoughts for the time being. Hors pulled out his pack and rummaged through it, scattering the contents onto the table in front of him: a golden bracelet shaped like a snake eating its tail, a knife with a hilt carved in the likeness of a naked woman, a small wooden box covered in peeling in gold leaf. Eventually he pulled out a linen-wrapped package and unfolded it, revealing a leg of salted meat. He took a bite and then offered it to the others, who refused with shakes of their heads. Shrugging, Hors continued his meal.
'It's going to be difficult.' Gird said finally.
'What is?' asked Bjordrin.
'Trying to control this army will be like herding seals,' Gird told them. 'Sutenvulf can
instil his will upon them, but they won't listen to us, or if they do they'll forget everything as soon as they catch sight of the enemy.'
'Good Norse tactics.' said Undar with a grunt.
'We need to break the army down.' Jakob said in his rattling whisper. 'Undar can command part of the warbands, Hors the other. We will give Kul the Kurgan to command. The beasts, well there's nothing we can do about them.'
'And what good will that do?' asked Gird. 'We don't know where we're going, so why divide our force and risk meeting the enemy without our full numbers?'
'As the master told us, we will find the foe.' Jakob said with a heavy sigh. 'I shall find them. We shall lure them onto a part of our army and then encircle and crush them.'
'You're going to find them?' said Undar. Jakob turned his golden eye towards the disfigured warrior. 'Oh, magic. Of course.'
As THE OTHERS snored in their sleep on the benches below, Jakob climbed the crumbling wooden steps to the first floor. Stepping around the gaping hole caused by Sutenvulf, the shaman made his way between the rooms. Opening a door, he let himself into one of the chambers, the same room where he had lain sleepless, waiting fearfully for the witch hunter to attack.
Things were very different now. Gone was the fear, the doubts, the cowardice. All that he had foreseen had come to pass. Back then, three years ago, he could not have dreamt of the power he now wielded. He had been scared to summon the bloodletters of Khar, terrified of the possible consequences. Now he could do such a thing without such fears, though it was still not easy.
He pulled himself awkwardly onto the bed and lay on his back, closing his natural eye. Through the other, he watched the drifting currents of magic that played over him, taking pleasure in their random, erratic beauty. With a barely perceptible extension of power, he entered the coma-like state that allowed his spirit to slip from his body.
Tonight he would range far, further than he had spirit-travelled before. He drifted up through the rafters and roof of the tavern into the sky above ruined Tungask. He felt a shiver of excitement as the heavy snow continued to fall, passing through his incorporeal body.
Settling towards the ground Jakob skimmed from building to building, looking at the warriors huddled together, out of the biting wind. He veered away from the knots of dark shifting energies that signified the presence of the other shamans, and allowed himself to be carried on the magical current, floating out towards the bridge.
In one street, he paused for a moment, recognising it. Yes, it was here that he had soaked his rune-stones in blood and called upon Khar to send his ferocious warriors across the void to aid him. Their touch lingered on still, after all this time, an afterimage of gore and rage. Moving further on, he passed the spot where Kurt had finally achieved his vengeance against Marius van Diesl. Here the Chosen had learned of his true potential, the power that he could carry through himself and bend to his will.
Jakob's spirit accelerated up into the sky, heading southwards. Borne upon the wings of a dream, he raced beneath the dark clouds. It was not long before he had passed in front of the leading edge of the storm, and broke into a crisp, starlit sky. Slowing, Jakob revelled for a moment in the sensation, floating without effort amongst the firmament. He felt as if he could reach out and snatch a star.
Admonishing himself for this flight of fancy he focussed himself on the task at hand. Beneath him, stretching like a silver ribbon, the Urskoy ran to the Kislev coast. In the far distance, many miles to the west, he could see the lights of Erengrad, the port at the mouth of the river. They would want to stay clear of the city as much as possible, and so he turned eastwards, following the course of the river.
On both sides he could see pinpricks of light and swooped lower to investigate. They were campfires, gathered in small groups every few miles. They were the scouts of the southerners, sent ahead to watch for Sutenvulf's host. Here and there were larger concentrations of light, and Jakob saw that each was a larger party guarding a bridge, or where the river widened and became shallow enough to be forded. Further eastwards he travelled, and as he flew, a plan began to form in his mind.
Turning, he directed himself south again, seeking the army itself. It was not long until he spied the glow against the dark ground that spread across the earth. He was momentarily taken aback by the size of the army. Row after row after row of tents dotted the ground, stretching for over a mile in each direction.
Getting lower and lower, Jakob looked for other information that would be useful. At the centre of one square of tents was a wider open space and he moved towards it. He paused and hovered in the air above it. There sat six mighty cannons, wagons full of barrels and shot around them. They were larger than any gun Jakob had seen during his time in the Empire, and he realised that they would be able to hurl their shot a considerable distance. There was more than enough ammunition for them to sustain a constant barrage of fire.
Adding this to his thoughts, Jakob allowed himself to be buoyed upwards on the magical winds. The camp grew smaller beneath him until he could see it laid out like a map. A bright, painful glow to his right attracted his attention. He ventured as close as he could, which was not so very close he realised, before the burning in his golden eye was almost unbearable. It was the Sigmarite bitch, Ursula, he realised. It seemed as if Kurt was not the only one who wielded the power of the gods now, though her patron was weak compared to the mighty gods of the north.
Retreating from the stench of pure faith, Jakob turned to head north again, his mission complete. From his vantage point high above the ground, he could see the first rays of the sun creeping above the mountains in the east and knew that he had to return to his body soon. Just as he was about to speed away, something else caught his attention.
Amongst the swirling patterns of magic, the breath of the gods was carved into dreams and nightmares by the mortals below. There was one spot though where the waving currents became straight lines. He had not seen its like before, and Jakob was intrigued. He ghosted closer, following the lines of power, and as he drifted into them, he saw that the shifting energies were split, fragmented into ethereal ribbons of different hues.
He saw that the artificial lines were in fact radiating out from one point, like the spokes of a wheel. They coalesced into a single mass inside one of the tents, and Jakob flew forward to investigate.
The tent itself seemed no different to any of the others. Perhaps it was some magical artefact, he thought, allowing his spirit to pass through the fabric of the shelter. Inside a man sat in the middle of the tent on a rug, his legs crossed. In his lap he had a book open and he was whispering to himself. Jakob drifted lower until he was hovering just above the man's shoulder, and looked at the open page. The writing was meaningless to the illiterate shaman, but the diagrams of circles and angles looked familiar, like stylised versions of Norse runes.
The man hesitated in his incantation and stopped. He looked around the tent with a frown of confusion creasing his forehead, and as the man's face turned towards Jakob his eyes widened in surprise. Jakob realised that the man could see him, that he had the othersight.
Panic stabbed at the shaman's heart and in that moment of shock, he lost all control of the sorcerous powers sustaining his spirit so far from his body. In an instant the spell was shattered and the tug of his mortal flesh gripped him again. In a heartbeat he was back in his body, wracked with agony, screaming in pain and terror. Blood bubbled from around his rune-stones, his flesh burning and smoking at their touch.
There were heavy footsteps on the boards as Jakob rolled off the bed, clutching himself with his good arm, spitting with the pain that infused his being. Bjordrin rushed through the door and found Jakob on his knees. The shaman looked up at him, magical sparks dancing across the golden sphere of his magical eye.
'Get out!' Jakob snarled, motes of dark energy flaring from his mouth. Bjordrin needed no further prompting and fled the room.
THE SUN WAS close to dusk by the time Jakob recovered from his
ordeal. During the day he had drifted in and out of the spirit world, his soul entangled between body and the winds of magic by a torn web of power.
Bjordrin and the others had sat in the bar room of the tavern, shuddering and exchanging worried glances as they listened to his hoarse screams and agonised ravings in the room above. Just after noon, Gird had ventured upstairs, but had stopped in the doorway of the room, horrified. Jakob had been splayed across the floor, his rune-stones pulsing with a sickly light. There were other presences in the room, half-seen, half-heard shadow creatures that flitted around the crippled shaman. One of them had brushed against Gird and its chill touch numbed his arm. He had retreated quickly, and had sat silently by the fire, refusing to reveal what he had witnessed, speaking only to warn the others not to repeat his folly.
Not long before dusk Jakob had fallen silent. It was Undar this time that braved the first floor, pulling his bulk along the narrow passageway to the bedchamber and peering inside. Jakob was lying on the floor still, but was calm, his chest rising and falling slowly. As Undar turned to move away, a floorboard creaked loudly and the shaman's eye fluttered open.
'Wait.' Jakob croaked, and Undar looked back. 'Help me up.'
Hesitantly, the gigantic warrior pushed through the doorway and stood beside Jakob. He waited for a moment, but as the shaman extended a withered hand, he instinctively grabbed hold of it and pulled Jakob to his feet. His touch was icy cold.
'You should rest.' Undar said as Jakob limped past him towards the door.
'No, no time.' the shaman replied with a shake of his head. 'Come with me, we have to prepare.'
Undar followed Jakob back along the landing and down the stairs. Hors rose from his seat and offered the shaman an arm to steady himself, but Jakob waved him away irritably.
'Do something useful.' he snarled, causing the Norseman to flinch. 'Go and fetch Andar Kul, he must be told what to do.'