Hammer and Bolter 24

by Christian Dunn

  ‘Sit for a moment,’ said Mondelblatt. ‘My skills as a draughtsman are rudimentary, at best, but I shall do my best to convey the shapes of the sigils that you are looking for. Mark them as accurately as you can on a map that you must buy from the man, I don’t recall his name, halfway down Eyk’s End, the green, windowless doorway. No one makes a better map, and precision will make all the difference.’

  Gilead nodded at Fithvael, who pulled his hood up over his head, lowered his knees and dropped his shoulders so that he was suddenly a foot shorter and more rounded of form than he naturally was. He would have little trouble passing for a man, especially in a city where everyone was afraid of what they might see if they chose to take notice of anything. He ducked out of the tavern, tucking Mondelblatt’s notebook between the fastenings of his jerkin.

  Within a very few minutes, he was steering the palfrey through the byways of the waking city, east towards Eyk’s End and the North Gate, to begin his task.

  Gianna brought Laban back into the tavern as Gilead lifted his hood and dropped his knees and shoulders. The elf boy was already standing low, almost stooping. He fit easily under the height of the beams now, and had clearly taken his mistakes to heart. Gilead looked at him, and Laban dropped his eyes to the floor.

  ‘You will escort the professor,’ said Gilead. ‘Allow the old man to lead you back to the university. Do his bidding, but remain at his side.’

  ‘Where will you be, cousin?’ asked Laban.

  ‘Everywhere,’ said Gilead. ‘Sometimes before you, and sometimes beside you, sometimes to your right and sometimes your left. I will always have you in my sights. I will always be able to see and hear you, even if you cannot detect my presence. Go undetected, Laban te Tuin.’

  ‘You talk as if it is not safe,’ said Laban.

  ‘Do you know that it is?’ asked Gilead.

  ‘You know better than I do,’ said Laban, bowing his head a little further, aware of his earlier transgressions.

  ‘If I raise the alarm, shield Professor Mondelblatt and, if you are able and it is safe, return here,’ said Gilead.

  ‘If I am not able?’ asked Laban.

  ‘The professor will know what to do,’ said Gilead as he and the old man exchanged a long look. ‘At all and any cost, keep Mondelblatt safe. Our task is great, so great that we cannot fully understand it. Much as it pains me, I fear we need the professor and his knowledge if we are to prevent the demise of our race.’

  ‘You’ll do more than save your family, Gilead,’ said Mondelblatt. ‘You’ll save the Empire.’

  ‘Raise not your hopes, old man,’ said Gilead. ‘You must know that when it came time to save my family, I was found wanting. When it came time to save my brother, I failed. With everything to lose, I lost it all.

  ‘Your only hope, old man, is that loss means nothing to me.’

  LET THE GREAT AXE FALL

  Part Two

  Graham McNeill

  When Cuthwin awoke, it was as though he’d spent the night in a warm bed with one of Aelfwin’s Night Maidens. His limbs felt refreshed and his head was as clear as a winter’s morning. He rolled from his blanket and stretched, sitting upright with a bemused grin on his face as he saw the rest of their company felt a similar sense of wellbeing. Teon and Gorseth set off to gather fresh kindling for the fires, but the smile fell from Cuthwin’s face as he saw the churned ground all around them, hundreds of footsteps in the earth and scraped claw marks on the rock. Cuthwin leapt to his feet and snatched his sword from its scabbard as he saw more and more signs of a sizeable warhost’s passing. Even the men with little in the way of woodsman’s skills could hardly fail to notice the imprint of so many feet, and voices were raised in confusion at the sight of the tracks.

  ‘What happened here?’ asked Wenyld, kneeling beside a clawed footprint.

  ‘We slept through the night,’ said Leodan, scanning the path that led up the mountain.

  ‘What in the name of Ulric’s balls was in that drink?’ demanded Cuthwin. ‘We could have been killed!’

  Leodan shook his head. ‘Nothing that shouldn’t have been. It’s just burned water rakia.’

  ‘Damn it, Leodan, you could have killed us,’ snarled Wenyld. ‘You might have a death wish, but don’t drag us down with you.’

  The Taleuten horseman gripped the hilt of his knife, and for a moment Cuthwin thought he might actually draw it.

  ‘Talk sense, man,’ said Leodan. ‘If I’d put us out with strong drink then we’d all be dead.’

  Despite his anger, Wenyld saw the logic of what Leodan was saying, and nodded curtly, turning to Cuthwin with a mute appeal for an explanation. Cuthwin had none to give him; he couldn’t tell how many had passed in the night, nor, for that matter, could he imagine how they hadn’t all been woken or killed. He tried to move carefully around the tracks, but it was impossible to step on any patch of ground that hadn’t been tramped flat by the passage of uncounted feet.

  ‘This makes no sense,’ he said. ‘Why aren’t we dead?’

  Cuthwin gave up trying to decipher the tracks and looked up as he heard voices raised in anger from farther along the path. He saw Sigmar making calming gestures towards the dwarfs who all looked as though they were ready to start a brawl in a crowded tavern. A hunched figure in a cloak of iridescent feathers stood behind Sigmar, and Cuthwin took an instant dislike to the man, though he could not say why.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Looks like trouble.’

  Wenyld and Leodan followed Cuthwin as he made his way to the ugly scene brewing between Sigmar and the dwarfs. Even before he reached Sigmar’s side, he heard words like necromancer and daemonspawn. It didn’t take any great leap of imagination to know that these words were being directed at the man in the cloak of raven feathers. As Cuthwin approached, the man turned to look at him, and the huntsman felt acutely uncomfortable, as though all his secrets were laid bare. He looked away, standing just behind Sigmar as Master Alaric glowered in fury.

  ‘We will not march with this warlock at our side,’ said the dwarf, his hand of flesh and blood curled tightly around his axe, his bronze one clenched in a fist.

  ‘But for Bransùil we would all be dead,’ said Sigmar.

  ‘Or enslaved in one of the rat things’ hell-pits,’ said the raven-cloaked man, clearly the Bransùil of whom Sigmar spoke. ‘Which, trust me, would be far worse.’

  ‘Shut your mouth, daemonkin!’ roared Alaric, hefting his axe meaningfully.

  Sigmar raised his hands. ‘Alaric, this man saved your life. Now calm down and put up your weapon before you dishonour yourself.’

  Alaric glared at Sigmar, and only the oaths they had sworn kept him from violence. Cuthwin knew how seriously dwarfs took their oaths, and by voicing how close Alaric was to breaking his, Sigmar had shamed him into backing down. But it had cost Sigmar greatly to invoke the power of his oath, and even Cuthwin could see that Alaric was cut deeply.

  Alaric lowered his axe and calmed his raging temper with shuddering breaths.

  ‘Aye, so be it, Sigmar,’ said Alaric with a disappointed sigh. ‘While we march together in these mountains I’ll not harm this one, but if he ever works his sorceries on me or my warriors again, my axe will have his head off his shoulders so fast, he’ll walk ten paces before he knows he’s dead.’

  ‘You have my word he will not,’ said Sigmar, turning to face the cloaked man. ‘Swear it.’

  Bransùil sneered, as though unused to being given such commands, but he nodded and gave an awkward bow to the Emperor. ‘So be it, I shall not work my magics upon the sons of Grungni again. You have my word on it.’

  Alaric did not acknowledge Bransùil’s words, but simply turned and set off towards the path leading farther into the mountains.

  ‘Be ready to march by the time the shadows reach that rock,’ said the dwarf, pointing to a white boulder at the end of the plateau. Looking at the sun’s position, Cuthwin saw that didn’t give them much time. Sigmar saw it too, and let out a deep
breath.

  ‘Cuthwin, Wenyld, get everyone ready to move out,’ said Sigmar.

  ‘Sire, what just happened here?’ asked Cuthwin. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘The tracks you see all around us?’ said Sigmar. ‘A host of armoured monsters passed in the night, and this man saved us from them. How, I do not yet know, but that we are alive at all is thanks to him.’

  ‘I am Bransùil the Aeslandeir,’ said the man, and Cuthwin stiffened at the alien sound of the man’s homeland.

  ‘You are Norsii?’

  ‘I was born in the north, yes,’ agreed Bransùil. ‘A student of Kar Odacen, but don’t hold that against me.’

  ‘We can’t trust his kind,’ said Leodan. ‘You drove the Norsii out for a reason. They hold to the old ways of dark gods and blood sacrifice.’

  Wenyld put his hand on the hilt of his knife, and Leodan’s sword slipped an inch from its leather scabbard. Cuthwin saw Bransùil’s eyes glitter with dark amusement, and stepped in front of his bellicose companions.

  ‘Why are you here?’ asked Cuthwin. ‘And how did you come upon us? I saw no tracks that could belong to you.’

  Bransùil smiled. ‘There are paths through this world that not even you can track, Cuthwin, son of Gethwer. Paths that only those with the shealladh can see.’

  A chill travelled the length of Cuthwin’s spine and he backed away from the man, making the sign of the protective horns over his heart.

  ‘He is a warlock!’

  ‘Warlock, wyrd, galder-smith, sorcerer, seider… I have been called all such things and worse,’ said the man, ruffling the feathers of his black cloak. He grinned, and Cuthwin saw his teeth were a perfect white, like the first snow of winter. No man’s teeth should be as white.

  ‘We owe him our lives,’ stated Sigmar. ‘And that is a debt we will honour.’

  ‘He probably saved us for something worse!’ said Wenyld. ‘A sacrifice to his heathen gods!’

  Bransùil laughed – a cawing, echoing sound – and said, ‘Wenyld son of Wythhelm, if I desired you dead, you would already be a feast for the scavengers of these mountains.’

  Wenyld blanched as the man laughed.

  ‘Enough,’ said Sigmar. ‘This man is under our protection and you will fight at his side as you would any of your sword-brothers. You understand? Now put up your blades and get ready to move.’

  Cuthwin nodded. He didn’t like it, but he understood the debt they owed this man. So many tracks had passed in the night that there was no way they could have lived against such numbers. Sigmar walked past him to where Taalhorsa was hobbled by the edge of the cliff. Cuthwin felt the cloaked man’s gaze upon him and reluctantly turned to face him.

  ‘You do not need to fear me, Cuthwin, son of Gethwer,’ said the man. ‘Today the sun is bright, the wind is clear and the champion of Kharneth is many leagues ahead of us. Let us bask in what the gods have given us while it is ours to enjoy, eh? I have no doom for you this day, but who knows what tomorrow may bring?’

  Wenyld took Cuthwin’s arm and led him away from the grinning warlock.

  ‘Pay him no mind,’ said Wenyld. ‘His kind are never to be trusted. Even their truth is cloaked in lies.’

  Cuthwin nodded, but said nothing as he reached his horse. He would keep an eye on this Bransùil. No good could come of association with those who practised the dark arts. Cuthwin possessed a single arrowhead fashioned from a silver icon of Morr that he’d had blessed by the high priestess of Shallya.

  He had been saving the arrow for Krell.

  Now he wondered if he would need it to slay a mortal enemy.

  Another six days’ travel took them higher and higher into the mountains. Alaric spoke little during that time, aside from advising on the best path for the horses, but Sigmar couldn’t blame him. The dwarfs did not approve of men dabbling in the sorcerous arts, though he would not be drawn on why, save a thinly-veiled barb at the easily corrupted hearts of humankind.

  Midmorning on the fourth day of travel saw the hunters pass the snowline, and the weather deteriorated still further. Swirling blizzards halted Sigmar’s warriors on the fifth day, forcing them to find shelter in a winding cave system that had clearly been home to a large beast at some point. The tracks at the cave mouth were a mix of ursine paw and something vaguely birdlike, but paintings on the stone walls spoke of a crude kind of intelligence.

  Piles of gnawed bones, some as long as a man’s leg, lay in a rotting pile of discarded trinkets and skulls, some recognisably greenskin, others of a form and shape that none of the hunters could recognise.

  ‘We shouldn’t stay here,’ said Cuthwin, looking around the stinking interior of the cave. ‘It smells of fresh blood. Whatever lives here brings its kills back to devour. It’s probably out hunting just now, and we don’t want to be here when it comes back.’

  ‘We don’t have a choice,’ said Sigmar. ‘The storm is too severe. We need shelter.’

  ‘If the beast returns to its lair, we’ll be trapped.’

  ‘That’s a chance I’ll take,’ said Leodan, leading his shivering horse into the cave, though it fought him as soon as it caught a whiff of the blood and bones. None of the horses were willing to enter the cave without a struggle, and hauled at their riders as they were dragged inside. Even the prospect of a blizzard seemed preferable to their mounts, and Sigmar wondered if he should take that as a sign.

  ‘Get some fires going,’ ordered Sigmar. ‘And do it quickly if we’re not to freeze.’

  Cuthwin nodded, but before the huntsman could begin to gather up their meagre supply of firewood, Bransùil opened his hands and spoke a muttered word that sounded part exhalation, part violent expulsion. The cave was suddenly filled with light as twin balls of seething orange fire sprang to life in the palms of his hands.

  Sigmar was astonished. He had heard that the shamans of the Norsii could command the elements, but had never seen a man perform such a feat before his very eyes. Bransùil flicked his wrists and the two balls of flame fell to the ground, continuing to burn as though sustained by invisible kindling and fuelled by unseen timber. In moments the cavern was comfortably warm, and the ice and snow coating the warriors’ armour and cloaks began to melt.

  ‘You can summon fire with your power?’ asked Sigmar.

  ‘I can summon many things,’ replied Bransùil. ‘Fire is but the least of them.’

  ‘You should not wield great power with such casual ease,’ warned Sigmar. ‘Men will fear you for it.

  ‘Men already fear me,’ said Bransùil. ‘Most days they are right to, but not today. The fire will warm us and cook our food and keep nearby predators at bay.’

  Sigmar nodded and knelt by the nearest of the fires. Its heat was powerful, and soon warmed his frozen limbs. Though initially reluctant to approach these unnatural fires, cold, hunger and Sigmar’s example eventually drove the men to gather around the crackling blazes and prepare the cook pots.

  Alaric’s dwarfs took neither heat nor sustenance from the fires, and simply sat at the back of the cave, speaking in their native tongue with low voices and chewing their tough stonebread. It saddened Sigmar that Alaric had reacted with such anger at the presence of the Norsii warlock, but he understood the dwarf’s hostility. His people had lost warriors in the fight against the northern tribes at Middenheim too, and he had no reason to trust Bransùil.

  Neither did Sigmar, but necessity made for strange bedfellows.

  Steaming bowls were passed around, and the mood thawed along with the ice as the men began to feel more human with hot food in their bellies. Sigmar sat with his warriors around the blaze nearest the cave mouth, and the shimmering flames made the pictograms on the walls dance like drunken revellers on a feast day.

  Bransùil accepted a drink from Leodan’s bottle, and Sigmar was surprised at the gesture, for the Taleuten had been the first to draw his blade at the mention of the warlock’s homeland.

  Leodan saw his look and said, ‘The man’s not killed us, and now he’
s keeping us warm. That’s worth a mouthful of rakia.’

  Sigmar accepted that simple logic and nodded.

  The talk was slow and forced, each man wary of speaking too freely in the presence of the Norsii. If Bransùil took offence, he hid it well, and simply sat in silence with his hands stretched toward the fire.

  ‘How far behind Krell do you think we are, Cuthwin?’ asked Sigmar.

  Cuthwin rubbed a hand over his face, and Sigmar saw the weariness etched into the man’s features. He remembered Cuthwin as a young boy, catching him sneaking through Reikdorf to spy on his Blood Night, and still found it hard to reconcile the bearded huntsman before him with that cocksure youngster of his memory.

  ‘Hard to say,’ said Cuthwin. ‘The storm is blowing away the tracks almost as soon as they’re made, but I reckon we’re close.’

  ‘How can we ever catch such a monster?’ asked Teon. ‘It doesn’t get tired, doesn’t need to sleep and it doesn’t need to stop to eat.’

  ‘You are wrong, Teon, son of Orvin,’ said Bransùil. ‘It does get tired.’

  ‘How can that be possible?’ said Gorseth. ‘It’s dead.’

  ‘How little you know…’ smiled Bransùil. ‘Aye, Kharneth’s champion is dead, and the fiend who brought his damned soul back to life is no more. You saw what happened to the rest of the legion of the dead when your Emperor slew the necromancer, it collapsed to dust and ruin. But Nagash was not the only one with a claim on Krell’s soul. The Blood God, Kharneth, claimed him an age ago and his hold is unbreakable. Krell’s hate and rage give him strength. They sustained him when all others of his kind fell, but even hate has its limits. Even rage cools.’

  The Norsii’s eyes glimmered darkly, and Sigmar couldn’t shake the idea that he spoke with admiration for such power.

  ‘So he’s getting weaker?’ asked Wenyld.

  ‘Weaker, yes, but still monstrously dangerous,’ agreed Bransùil. ‘To walk in the mortal world for a creature such as Krell requires powerful magic. Dark magic. The invisible energy of tombs and graves, of dark deeds and violent murder. That is why he has come to the Vaults, for the tombs of dead kings throng its weed-choked pathways and gloomy valleys. The darkest of magic can be found here, but without a necromancer to channel it, Krell can only sup crudely from broken barrows. Such magic is finite and old; it fades quickly and his strength is a fraction of what it once was. You will never have a better chance of ending him than you do now.’