3 the heart of chaos

by ich du

  'This is Ulfshard.' she snarled as Sutenvulf flinched from its holy light. 'It was created to destroy your kind.'

  'You have lost none of your charm.'

  With a hate-filled snarl, Ursula lunged forwards, Ulfshard spearing toward the daemon prince. Sutenvulf leapt into the air, wings beating, and hovered above Ursula.

  'Coward!' she shouted, and the daemon prince laughed.

  'Your efforts to resist are endearing, but futile. You cannot win.'

  'Come down here and I'll prove you wrong.' spat Ursula.

  'I do not mean whether you can defeat me. I mean your pointless resistance to my masters. You cannot defeat them, you cannot destroy them. They are as eternal as the universe. Why do you fight that which cannot be fought?'

  'All evil can be overcome.' Ursula said.

  Sutenvulf landed a few yards away.

  'Chaos is not evil, it is elemental, it is everything. You might just as well declare war on the wind or the ocean. When you are long dead and your bones are not even dust, Chaos will still rule this world.'

  'I don't believe you.' Ursula said. 'Faith is eternal.'

  'You are wrong. I have seen the future, and it is Chaos. The fleeting lives of mortals are but flickering candles in the night sky. It is of no concern to my gods whether you fight or not. My death is inconsequential.'

  'It is important to me to fight.' Ursula told him as the two began to circle each other. 'I have a choice, to fight or to surrender. You gave up. You lacked the strength and courage, and it is the weak such as you who allow Chaos to endure.'

  'Is it weakness to accept the desire of the gods? I am strong, revered, immortal. Who has lost? I did not surrender, I embraced my true destiny. You fight against the very thing that will make you great.'

  'I am also strong, and revered.' she said. 'I have no need of immortality, for my actions will live in legend. When I slay you, your memory will be forgotten, your deeds worthless.'

  Trumpet blasts sounded from the gates of Mursk and a long column of knights rode forth. The standards that flittered above them were embroidered in the colours of the Ostland and the Ostermark. Steinhardt had arrived. Five thousand cavalry charged into the remnants of Sutenvulf's army and the daemonic horde, carving a swathe half a mile wide with their lances and swords.

  'Your army is defeated.' said Ursula. 'You have lost.'

  'There are always other battles, other armies. Men die fast but they breed quickly. I have seen the end of the world, the coming of the Realm of Chaos, the End Times. The fragile cities of men and dwarfs and elves cannot stand against the power of Chaos. You cannot slay me. Ten, a hundred, a thousand lifetimes from now I will still exist. If you strike me down I will return.'

  'And I will ensure that there will be someone like me to send you back to your masters.' snarled Ursula, racing forwards.

  Sutenvulfs wings folded as he leapt aside from her overhead cut, laughing.

  'You forget that I taught you to fight. You should thank me for keeping you alive all these years.'

  'Get away from her!' a voice shouted.

  Ursula saw Johannes galloping across the hill towards them. His armour was battered and bloodstained and his leg was heavily bandaged, his horse lathered with sweat.

  'I can feel his love for you, it is very strong. Perhaps you should have cared more for him while you had the chance.'

  'No!' screamed Ursula as Sutenvulf turned and snapped his wings open, gliding easily across the body-strewn snow towards Johannes. The would-be knight snatched something from his belt and threw it at the daemon prince, who instinctively slashed at it with his clawed hand. As the tattered remnants of the waterskin fluttered into the air, clear liquid splashed across Sutenvulfs arm and wing, burning like acid. He gave a roar of pain as his wing snapped and folded, sending him towards the blood-slicked ground.

  'The waters of Taal, you bastard!' shouted Johannes triumphantly as Sutenvulf crashed into the piles of corpses, carving a furrow in the snow and rock. Johannes lowered his lance and charged, but the daemon prince reacted quickly, bringing his flaming sword around in a wide arc.

  The flaming ruins of Johannes and his steed dropped smoking to the snows, sending up small wisps of steam. Pulling himself to his feet Sutenvulf bit back the pain that seared through him.

  Ursula was running down the hill towards Sutenvulf, Ulfshard trailing blue fire behind her. Grabbing the sword in both hands, she swung at the half-crippled daemon prince, who brought his sword around to block the attack. Magical fire and sparks erupted where their blades clashed together.

  'Why do you not accept that you cannot win, and give yourself over to the power that I know you can have?'

  'Because I would rather die free,' said Ursula, thrusting Ulfshard forward. Again Sutenvulf parried, knocking Ursula to one knee. The daemon prince towered over her, sword raised. 'You are nothing more than a slave to darkness,'

  'I am a willing servant; it is you who are the slave.'

  'You exist for nothing more than to fight for your Dark Gods, to battle for their amusement,' said Ursula, rising to her feet.

  The daemon smiled cruelly and brought his sword down. Ursula reacted just in time, throwing herself to one side. Rolling she swung with Ulfshard, all her faith and hatred directed through the sword.

  Ulfshard carved into the immaterial flesh of Sutenvulf's chest, opening him up like a ripe fruit. Energy spilled from the shell of his body, like blood from the wound of a mortal. He did not cry out, or bellow in pain. His eyes seemed strangely calm as he fell to one knee, his flaming sword dropping from his grip. His face was level with Ursula's, eye to eye.

  'And yet these past three years, it is you who amused them the most.'

  EPILOGUE

  Osterreim, Spring 1713

  THE ARMY WAS bedraggled, and pitifully small, their tattered black and white banners hanging limply in the drizzle that had turned the battlefield into a mire. Seated astride his warhorse, Count Vapold of Ostland watched the dreary scene with a sense of foreboding.

  The winter had been harsh, Ostland's stores had been emptied for the march north. The joy of victory had been short-lived as his people had begun to count the cost. The army was all but shattered, barely a third of the men that had marched into Kislev returning to their homes. Starvation and disease had taken their toll, and against such foes all the power of Wolfenburg was for nought.

  The Battle of Mursk had not ended the war, and heavily armed patrols had been left at the Kislev border as the scattered remnants of the Chaos host had continued south where they could, still intent upon exacting revenge for the raids against their people.

  When spring had come, Vapold hoped that the new year would bring new hope, but it was not to be. As he had feared, the Ottilia of Talabecland had moved against Ostland, sending armed bands foraying across the Talabec into Vapold's lands.

  Sensing Ostland's weakness, Talabheim had then moved in force, capturing several villages and castles not far from the river dividing the two states. Vapold had been forced once again to muster the army and march to war, and here, at Osterreim, the two forces now met. He had sent messengers to Mordheim to request Steinhardt's assistance, and had gone to great lengths to explain to the Ostermark count the threat he was under should Talabecland seize power in Ostland, for surely the Ottilia's gaze would turn eastwards before the year was out. As yet he had heard no reply, and so Ostland battled bravely on.

  Vapold would be damned before he let Talabecland reach Wolfenburg, for surely such a retreat would only serve to fuel the Ottilia's ambitions. He would make his rival retreat back to the Talabec or die in the attempt. He even hoped that the Count of Hochland, a long time vacillator trapped between the great powers of Ostland, Talabecland and Middenland, would send aid, even if he refused to break his convenient neutrality by sending troops.

  The battle was desultory, almost embarrassing, as soldiers struggled through the muddle, the fizz of misfiring black powder filled the air and the regiments of the two for
ces were reduced to brawling in the sodden conditions.

  Felsturm rode up, his heavy cloak damp and hanging tightly over the flanks of his horse. The captain guided his steed so that he was beside his count. He pointed to the southeast, where the road from Osterreim wound between the dark forests. There were men, arrayed for battle, marching along the road. Above them flew standards of purple and yellow, the colours of the Ostermark.

  'Bless Steinhardt!' said Vapold with the first happiness he had felt for many months.

  They watched as the army spread out through the fields, climbing over walls and moving through gates to array their battle-line. As they marched, the regiments of Steinhardt turned to the northwest, towards Vapold and his army.

  'He seems to be lining up beside the Talabeclanders,' Vapold said slowly, not quite believing what he saw.

  'I believe we are undone, my lord.' said Felsturm, and Vapold noticed that it was not rain upon the captain's cheeks, but tears. 'We are betrayed.'

  Northern Steppes, Summer 1714

  THE SUN WAS shining bright, a great yellow eye in the face of the cloudless sky. The wind was cold, from the north, but the chill only served to invigorate Asdubar Hunn even further. The swaying grass of the steppes swept past as he rode on, the shouts of his warriors behind him.

  The last year and a half had been good to him and his Hunn. After escaping the slaughter at Mursk, they had ridden north, looting a few villages on the way back to the Pass of Kings. His sons, now come of age, had started calling the campaign south the Golden Path of Asdubar. The hunting last summer had been particularly fine, for beasts and slaves. Few of the western tribes had returned from the south, and the Hunn had little competition for the prized elk herds. Those tribes that had returned had suffered badly, firstly during the battle and then from the vengeful pursuit of the shamed Kislevites.

  They had been even easier pickings than the elk, and the slaves Asdubar had captured had numbered many times over the number of warriors he commanded. The stunted firemasters of the bleak lands to the south had been pleased and exchanged many fine swords and suits of armour for the slaves.

  Now another rival had arisen. Upstart easterners, the slant-eyed Hung, had come, hearing that the west was theirs for the taking. Not here though, not on Asdubar's chosen ground.

  Ahead, the Khannin riders formed up around their totem, a great net of golden wire attached to a standard pole, hung with the heads of the chieftains they had slain. For many days they had swept westwards, putting to the sword all that refused to bend their knee to their new chieftain, Hagrin. But they had made a fatal error crossing into Hunn lands, Asdubar thought.

  He raised his spear above his head and kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse, urging it into a gallop. In his left hand he carried a shield marked with an eagle, a prized trophy from one of the Empire horsemen he had slain in the battle at Mursk. It was a good shield and had saved his life on more than one occasion.

  'Let's show these Khannin dogs what manner of men follow Asdubar!' he cried.

  'Asdubar!' his hundred warriors in response.

  'These cowards do not know the brave deeds of the Hunn!' he shouted with a grin.

  'The Hunn!' came the bellowed reply, heard clearly over the thunder of hoofbeats.

  'From the steppes of our birth, to the towers of the Gospodar scum, we shall ever taste victory!' Asdubar yelled.

  'Victory!'

  Marienburg, Early spring 1715

  THE THUNDER OF cannon fire reverberated along the hull causing the planks of the deck to shudder as the greatship fired a full broadside. To starboard, the Arabyan corsair disintegrated as the weight of iron crashed into her. Her lateen-rigged sail plummeted into the waves as her mast snapped. Gaping holes just above her waterline began to ship in the sea, causing her to sink fast.

  'Secure guns!' Master Verhoen called out, satisfied that any further firing would simply be a waste of powder and shot.

  'Bloody superb!' crowed Leerdamme from beside Verhoen on the quarterdeck. 'That'll teach those squint-eyed bastards!'

  He showed little sign of the fatigue and weariness that had marked him when he had been released from the count's gaol two months ago. For two years he had resisted Luiten's demands, putting up with the potential for disease, the rank food and the loss of freedom to protect his principles.

  Finally he had given in, a wandering soul trapped in a ten foot square cell, slowly going mad. He had needed to feel salt air on his face and feel a deck rising and falling beneath his feet.

  He could have rotted away in prison, and none would have been the wiser. All this for helping Ursula escape with Ulfshard. It hadn't seemed such a bad idea at the time, but as the days became a week, the weeks became a month, and the month became a year, Leerdamme had suffered doubts.

  His will had finally been broken by the rat. It had been a small rat, skinny in comparison to the beasts that inhabit a ship's hold. It had come into his cell each morning and Leerdamme thought he had befriended it with his crumbs of stale bread. Alas, the rat had better things to do and it had stopped visiting after a few weeks.

  For some reason this had struck Edouard Leerdamme hard and he had finally relented. He had signed his name to a commission in the Marienburg navy and now flew the colours on his masthead. Perhaps the most galling, the most unprincipled concession had been the renaming of his ship. It had been this, more than anything else, which he had been loath to do, but in the end the count had even forced this out of Leerdamme.

  Still a ship's a ship, he told himself. Better to be on the waves hunting these foreign devils than inside a room barely large enough to pace in. He was in high spirits as he walked to the lee side of the quarterdeck and stood watching the Arabyan coaster sinking stern first. Brightly coloured spots could be seen in the water where her crew had jumped overboard. Even now, Verhoen was ordering the longboat out to capture any survivors. Better to go down with the ship, Leerdamme thought, than hang by your neck.

  Yes, any pirate would rue the day he ran into the Count Luiten...

  Talagaad, Winter 1715

  'FIFTY?' EXCLAIMED RUPRECHT, amazed at the man's audacity. 'It's worth five hundred if it's worth a shilling!'

  'Then it's worth a shilling, 'cos I ain't got five hundred,' the pawnbroker replied. 'Go find someone else if'n yer lookin' fer that kinda money. I ain't got it.'

  Ruprecht sighed.

  'Two fifty?' he said. The pawnbroker laughed.

  'The Shallya mission's two streets over if'n yer lookin' fer charity,' the pawnbroker said with a grimace. 'Alright, I'll gi' you seventy-five, last offer.'

  'Look at it!' said Ruprecht. 'That's quality dwarf craftsmanship. That's the finest artisans around, you know. This isn't some tin knock-off from Marienburg, but quality blue steel from Karak Norn. Rune work, even.'

  'It's rusted and squeaks,' said the pawnbroker, holding up the mechanical hand in his palm. He flexed a finger and the delicate gears inside turned stiffly. 'You ain't looked after it.'

  'Try being a bloody boatman, out in all kinds of weather, and looking after a metal hand.' Ruprecht snapped back.

  'Boatman, eh?' said the pawnbroker, and his expression genuinely softened. 'Bad business that storm, bad business. I hear near half of all them boats and lighters was sunk, can fair walk from one side of the river to the other on the wreckage.'

  'Well, my bloody boat was one of them.' said Ruprecht. 'And it was a bad business, though not bad for business in your case, as I can see.'

  'Seventy-five, or go somewhere else.' the pawnbroker said, placing the hand on the counter and crossing his arms.

  'A hundred and fifty.' said Ruprecht. 'Come on, man, this is my livelihood we're talking about here. I need a new boat, and it's a bloody seller's market isn't it?'

  'I need to make a livin' too, y'know.' the pawnbroker replied. 'Look, yer breakin' me heart with yer story of bravery and poverty, so I'll do you a favour and cut the hagglin'. You got hunnerd and ten for it, okay?'

 
'Hundred and ten crowns?' said Ruprecht with a grin.

  'Good offer, take it or leave it.' said the pawnbroker, opening a drawer in the counter. He picked up the hand and waved it in Ruprecht's face. 'Sure you ain't gonna need it? Seems a shame to part with such a valuable 'eirloom.'

  'It doesn't mean anything.' said Ruprecht, unconsciously rubbing the stump of his left arm. 'A hook'll be just as useful.'

  The pawnbroker counted out the coins, a hundred and ten in all, and Ruprecht swept them off the counter into a small sack.

  'Good doing business with you.' he said. 'Now all I need is to find a new boat.'

  Skaldinghold, Winter 1721

  THE FALLING SNOW did little to quench the excitement of the gathered tribesmen. They were dressed in their finest clothes, their mail shirts polished, their hair and beards ornately braided. They were dressed in brightly patterned leggings and heavy fur cloaks trimmed with gilded animal fangs and claws.

  The warriors formed two lines facing each other, their swords, axes and spears raised to form an arch, along which the sons and grandsons of Hors Skalding carried his body upon a bier of woven leather. Over the wind the sound of a horn sounded along the fjord, echoing from the steep mountainsides across the waves.

  The funeral possession passed beneath the raised weapons of Hors's kinsmen and arrived at his longship. It was stacked with piles of wood doused in oil and fat, and they swiftly carried the body along the gangplank and placed it at the foot of the mast.

  The sun was just beginning to rise and the morning tide began to pull the waves from the shoreline. The funeral host returned their weapons to belts and sheaths and ran forwards to take their places around the ship. With a shout from Jurd, Hors's eldest son, they pushed as one, heaving the longship into the water, its keel cutting a furrow in the shale shore. As the longship began to float away, Jurd tossed a burning torch on to the deck, the flames quickly spreading to the sail and mast. He waded ashore in the wake of the others.