Slaves to Darkness 02 (The Blades of Chaos)

by Warhammer

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons

  and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the

  world's ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury

  it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds

  and great courage.

  At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the

  largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for

  its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is

  a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests

  and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns

  the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendant of the

  founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder

  of his magical warhammer.

  But these are far from civilised times. Across the length

  and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces

  of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come

  rumblings of war. In the towering World's Edge Mountains,

  the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and

  renegades harry the wild southern lands of

  the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the

  skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the

  land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the

  ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen

  corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods.

  As the time of battle draws ever

  near, the Empire needs heroes

  like never before.

  Author's Note

  The events of this book took place during a time of great strife and upheaval in the lands known as the Empire. Following the death of Emperor Mandred at the hands of inhuman assassins, the states of the Empire could not elect a new ruler, and war broke out between several Imperial provinces. This continued for several hundred years; and the period in which the following events took place is known as the Time of Three Emperors, when three of the provincial elector counts had declared themselves rightful Emperor - Stirland, Talabecland and the city state of Middenheim. Assailed from outside and divided within, the Empire was all but shattered, the once united states now operating as separate nations. Suspicion and politicking were the rule of the day in the Imperial courts, while the people tried to eke out a living amidst the ruins of the former Empire. Anarchy prevailed, brigands roamed the wilds, vile beastmen stalked the forest roads and the once cosmopolitan people of the Empire became introverted and parochial. The great horde of the orc warlord Gorbad Ironclaw had destroyed the state of Solland and was overrunning the Reikland, fertile heartland of the former Empire.

  At this time, political power could only be measured in military power, and a count with the backing of other counts and the people of the former Empire could still make a strong claim for the Emperor's throne. To this end, much blood was spilt and gold expended to reclaim ancient artefacts, uncover lost prophecies and seek favour with the elder races of the world in vain attempts to legitimise a claimant's grip on power.

  BOOK ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Challenge

  Fjaergardhold, Norsca, Early spring 1711

  The roar of Norse voices rose to a deafening crescendo and shook the heavy pine rafters of the hall, sending motes of dust drifting through the red light of the cooking fires. Three rows of tables and benches stretched up the long hall and met with the chieftain's table that crossed at their head in front of the firepit.

  The flamelight danced off Torvig Half-Ear's axe blade as he swung it in wide arcs around his head and leaped over the head table. Kurt Sutenmjar, Chosen of the Fjaergard, stood his ground, his empty fingers flexing as Torvig leapt over a bench towards him, scattering the assembled Norse men and women as they ducked and dived out of his way. Kurt was relaxed, almost disinterested, as he watched the veteran warrior bounding towards him.

  'Die, wastrel!' Torvig bellowed, his battered features twisted with rage, his long blond hair trailing in warrior tresses behind him, revealing the ragged remnants of his left ear, savaged by hounds when he was child.

  As Torvig lifted his axe above his head to strike, Kurt took a step forwards and his arms shot out with a speed that was at odds with his heavy build and layers of armour. His gauntleted fists closed around the axe haft, stopping it instantly, the jarring resistance causing Torvig to stumble and lose his grip. A kick to the midsection from Kurt completed Torvig's tumble and his hands slipped from the axe as he dove down into the bare earth of the floor, kicking up more dust.

  Torvig's anger lurched to terror as Kurt loomed over him, lifting the huge axe in his right hand with inhuman strength. Kurt raised the axe high, his piercing eyes boring into Torvig, and then brought the blade down. Torvig flinched as the axe was imbedded into the long table with a loud thud, sending splinters flying into the air and spilling goblets and plates to the ground. Torvig sagged and breathed a sigh of relief. It was short-lived.

  'I need no axe.' spat Kurt, his sneer contorting the scars and tattoos that marked his face, dark braids framing his once-handsome face. He reached down with his left hand and grabbed the front of his challenger's woollen jerkin, lifting him up until the warrior's toes were dragging a furrow in the earth. The Chosen heaved with his shoulders and sent Torvig flying across the hall, crashing into the round shields hung on the timber walls. The other Norse backed away quickly as Kurt stalked across the room to the firepit and snatched up a flaming brand. Torvig whimpered in horror as Kurt strode across the room with the log, its glowing tip trailing a wisp of smoke.

  His eyes flicking left and right, Torvig could see no avenue of escape. In desperation, he snatched up one of the fallen shields and swung it with all his strength, the rim smashing into the Chosen's jaw. Any normal man would have been flung from his feet, jaw smashed, unconscious. Kurt was knocked back a step, his foot sliding in the dirt to keep his balance. Torvig looked aghast at the slight dent left in the iron rim of the shield.

  Kurt flung the brand back into the fire and tore off his left gauntlet to dab a finger at the trickle of blood that seeped from his split lower lip. Grinning, he revealed crimson-flecked teeth.

  'Back in my homeland, Half-Ear, you would be winner,' Kurt told Torvig. 'Duels there are fought to first blood.'

  He began to laugh, a deep rolling sound, and soon the others were guffawing uproariously. Torvig snorted and then was caught up in the moment and laughed too. His chuckle ended abruptly when Kurt's hand shot out, gripped him by the throat and snapped his neck with a simple twist.

  'But we're not in the Empire!' said Kurt with a laugh as silence descended on the long drinking hall. 'We're in the North!'

  Grabbing Torvig's leg in his other hand, Kurt lifted the corpse above his head and slowly turned on the spot, showing it to the assembled Fjaergard warriors.

  'I am the Chosen of the Gods!' he said to them. 'I may be Sutenmjar, the Southern Pup,' he added with a glance at Hrolfgar, the chieftain who had given him the derogatory name, 'but the mighty lords of the north chose me. They sent me from the south, to lead you in battle, to show you the way to glory and riches. I battled alongside you at Tungask, I slew the devil Sigmarite witch hunter for you and saved your distant kin.'

  He tossed the body onto the table, cracking bowls and scattering drinking horns. Stepping onto a bench and then up to the pitted wood of the table itself, Kurt spread his arms wide in appeal. As he walked down the table the footfalls of his iron-shod boots boomed off the walls and the table creaked under the weight.
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br />   'They have made me strong,' he said to the trembling Norse. 'Their power flows through me, their might dwells within my muscles and veins. They sent me a guide, my own shaman, to lead me to my true home,' he said, pointing a finger at the scrawny figure of Jakob, who stood in the shadows, his glinting eyes watching everything, but his expression passionless.

  'I could kill all of you!' said Kurt, his voice like a storm. 'I could lay waste to Fjaergardhold, slaughter your women and children, and find another tribe! A tribe who would not plague me with their nagging, their doubts, their pointless challenges!'

  He fell silent for a moment before dropping his voice to a harsh whisper, his glare passing over the shaken marauders.

  'But just as the gods chose me, so they too chose you,' he continued. 'They brought me to you, and gave me the sacred duty to protect you. I do not question their will or their scheme, and you should not either.'

  Leaping from the table, he barged his way through the crowd to the double doors at the entrance to the hall. Flinging them open, the harsh white light of the northern spring sun surrounded him like a halo. Kurt gestured to the large trophy pole planted into the ground outside his low, round hut, where nearly a dozen heads already mouldered, a swarm of flies crawling over the decaying human remains.

  'Jakob.' he snapped. 'Add his brain pan to the others and feed the rest to my hounds.'

  Kurt stomped across the open space at the centre of the small village, his feet crunching over patches of shadowed frost and splashing through slushy puddles caused by the spring thawing. On three sides, a log palisade surrounded the thirty-one huts and long hall that made up the settlement of Fjaergardhold. On the southern edge of the village, the protective wall was broken by the small harbour, where four longships were drawn up on the shale beach that led down into the Fjaergardfjord. Their masts were taken down and laid on their decks alongside the red and white-striped rolls of heavy sailcloth. Each had twenty paddles pitched upright along the benches. Kurt had not yet seen them in their full glory, but their sleek lines, dragon figureheads and brightly patterned timbers were a constant terror to the inhabitants of the Empire's coastal towns and villages. He had seen the aftermath of their raids, when he'd been a knight of the Osterknacht, a year and a lifetime ago.

  It was nearing midday, but the village was quiet. Smoke drifted lazily from open flues in the roofs of the huts, clay pots clattered inside the Norse homes, and the ever present north wind sighed through the tops of the pine trees that surrounded Fjaergardhold. The breeze brought the smell of cooking meat.

  The sound of footsteps behind him caused Kurt to turn quickly, fists raised. He relaxed when he saw Hrolfgar, the Fjaergard chieftain, accompanied by his closest advisor - his brother Bjordrin.

  'Hold there, Sutenmjar!' Bjordrin called out, holding up a hand to halt Kurt as he moved to turn away.

  'Good fight, you think?' Hrolfgar said, laughing, but Kurt could see the worry behind the grin. His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with darkness, and of late Kurt had noticed a tic developing in the chieftain's right cheek.

  'Wasteful,' Kurt murmured. He pointed to his trophy pole. 'This is the twelfth challenge in the last eight months. Why do they try to do what they know is impossible?'

  'Defeat you?' asked Bjordrin. 'No warrior likes to admit that another is stronger than him.'

  'But I am the Chosen,' replied Kurt, turning towards his hut, the pair falling into step to his left. 'The gods protect me. Mortal warriors cannot harm me. Why do they persist? When I first came here, after that long, deadly trek from Tungask, I was welcomed as a victorious saviour. For forty days most of those whose heads I have taken walked alongside me, through the blizzards and storms, helping me, teaching me about the Fjaergard.'

  'Men together on such a march will always help each other,' Bjordrin said. 'An enemy in peace and wealth is often an ally in adversity.'

  'But why be my enemy now?' Kurt said as he wrenched open the plain wooden door of his hut and stooped inside.

  The smell of roasting pork filled his nostrils, and he saw Anyata crouched by the fire, turning a dripping haunch on a spit. Hearing him enter, she looked up with a wide smile, her reddish-blond hair plastered to her face with sweat. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat, making her even prettier in Kurt's eyes.

  Standing, Anyata skipped across the room to give him a deep hug, her head resting briefly on his armoured chest, and then stepped away and looked to the back of the hut. There, swaddled in a blanket of red and blue checks, their son Heldred slumbered peacefully, his small hands clutching a toy horse made of straw.

  'He has slept since breakfast,' Anyata said with a smile. She looked past Kurt at the others entering, and nodded respectfully as Hrolfgar and Bjordrin raised their hands in greeting. 'Men's talk?' she asked, her smile fading.

  'I'll watch Heldred,' Kurt said with a nod towards the door. He watched her leave, and as the door creaked shut, paced to the piles of bottles and jars beside the fireplace. Tossing aside his gauntlets, he picked up a stoppered jug, shook it next to his ear and discarded it. Lifting another, he smiled as he heard the sloshing of ale inside. Gesturing for Bjordrin and Hrolfgar to sit on the straw bedding along the walls, he took three drinking horns and passed around the strong beer.

  'Tell me, truthfully, why is the village discontented?' he asked, leaning back on the mat and taking a sup.

  'For over a full passing of the seasons, you have been with us,' Hrolfgar said after a short silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire and a sleepy murmur from the baby 'When you arrived, you were the Chosen, the greatest warrior of our tribe. You fought like a god at Tungask, and ever since none have been able to stand against you.' 'I know this.' muttered Kurt.

  'The Chosen is a great man.' Bjordrin said. 'You eat the finest of our food, drink the finest of our ale, have wedded the finest of our women. In return, you are the finest of our warriors.'

  'Have I not proven that again today?' Kurt said. 'There were few enough of your menfolk who survived Tungask, now more must die by my hand?'

  'They think you have grown weak.' Hrolfgar said with a glance at his brother. 'When you came, there was battle in your heart, the gods' light in your eyes. The saga of Tungask roused their spirits, their victory songs rocked our great meeting hall. But Tungask should have been only the start of your saga. A whole summer passed with no raids. You spend your time hunting, feasting, and with Anyata and Heldred. The tribe are looking to you to repay them for the privileges you enjoy.'

  'They say you are the Chosen wife, not the Chosen warrior.' Bjordrin said, staring into his ale. 'You were not given these gifts by the gods to make love, you were given them to make war. The fire that is in your blood is now used for cooking pigs, not for burning the lands of our enemies.'

  Kurt did not reply, but sat in silence swirling the ale in his drinking horn, until he was roused by a coughing cry from Heldred. He stood swiftly and strode to the cot, concerned. Some of the straw of the toy had worked loose and caught in the baby's mouth. Delicately, he pried it free and flicked it to the floor. Catching up Heldred in his free arm, the babe nestling against his elbow, he turned back to the others and took a long draught of ale.

  'My parents were slain and I was driven from my home by a madman,' he said, looking at his son. 'The woman I loved betrayed me to that man, and I killed him. Do I not deserve the love of a woman, the pride I feel when I look at my child?'

  'And what will you tell him when he is older?' Hrolfgar asked. 'You have learned much about our people, your son will be raised by them. Will he hear stories of hunting boar and wolf, and of drinking silently in the hall? Or stories of the prows of our longships cleaving the waves of the great seas, bringing ruin and terror to the weaklings of the south? Which father will he be most proud of?'

  'The gods did not choose you for a life warmed by the hearth,' Bjordrin said, draining his horn and tossing it next to the fire. 'The gods chose you for a life seared by the fires of battle.'

  Placi
ng Heldred back in his cradle, Kurt sighed.

  'I will think about what you have said,' he told them, gazing at the face of his son, his heart heavy.

  'Do not think too long, Sutenmjar, or you will have to place another head on your pole,' Hrolfgar said, standing up beside his brother, stroking a hand through his long beard. 'Thank you for the ale, we shall talk tomorrow.'

  Kurt did not turn around as they left and the door clattered shut. With a gurgle, Heldred opened his eyes and looked up at his father. Bright and blue were his eyes, full of intelligence. For a moment, he stared at Kurt, before starting to cry.

  'Hush now, Heldred,' Kurt soothed, dropping the drinking horn and rubbing the wisps of dark hair sprouting from his child's scalp. He then held his index finger up before the boy's face. He relaxed and let his mind look into himself, his nerves twitching as he dug into the power that ran through him, the magic that had infused him for a year and a half since he swore allegiance to the gods of Chaos. It flowed up through his veins, his blood becoming as fire, and he guided it, controlled it, until a small blue flame burst from his fingertip. Instantly, Heldred's cries of hunger became soft gurgles of delight as his bright eyes focussed on the flickering fire.

  'Your father still has fire in his blood,' Kurt said with a smile, which soon faded and became tears as he realised what he must do.

  Kurt stripped off his armour as Anyata sat with Heldred at her breast. Once, it had been a full suit of solid, Imperial plate mail, forged by Bechafen's finest smithies, as befitted a knight of the Osterknacht. Kurt had discarded much of it on his perilous escape from the psychotic witch hunter, Marius van Diesl. It had been further modified at Tungask, when Hrolfgar had inscribed it with many Norse sigils and charms and presented it back to Kurt after the ex-knight had survived the rites that had invested him with the power of the gods. Now, its origins were barely recognisable. Tofstig, the Fjaergard's blacksmith, had done his best to keep it in good repair, but steel was impossible for these people to forge, and full plate even harder. Much of it was now pig iron chainmail, and even had scraps of bronze riveted into its armour plates.