Slaves to Darkness 02 (The Blades of Chaos)

by Warhammer

  With a shuddering clank, the platform touched the tiles and the man pulled a lever. The chains took a moment to settle, before he unhooked part of the rope fencing and stepped off.

  'Good day, sir,' Khemen said, pacing forward and proffering a hand.

  'Is it? Well, I'll take your word for it young man. Good day to you,' the elderly gentleman replied. As the man spoke, Khemen noticed that part of the frame around the mans head punctured the flesh of his jaw and cheeks, and he saw small gears turning like clockwork, and tiny springs contracting and stretching in response. 'I am Library Master Kueller.'

  Khemen was mesmerised, watching the intricate machinery wind and unwind, and it was several moments before he could speak.

  'Venerable Library Master, I have need of your services.' Khemen eventually managed to say. He averted his gaze from the face-machine, but unfortunately this merely brought his eyes into contact with the equally disturbing stare of Kueller, through the layers of distorting lenses. The library master's gaze appeared to wander over Khemen's left shoulder, and the Arabian turned and looked, only to see a blank wall.

  'Excuse me, is something the matter?' the library master asked, stepping up beside Khemen and following his look.

  'I wondered what you were...' Khemen began, but then gave up. 'As I was, er, saying, I require your services, Master Kueller.'

  'Of course you do, young man.' Kueller nodded, the movement accompanied by the near-silent whirring of more gears. Khemen noticed a trickle of oil running down the man's neck, and a stain on the colour of his outlandish garment. 'You wouldn't have rung the bell otherwise, would you?'

  'No, no, you're quite right, sir.' Khemen agreed, his head bobbing foolishly. 'I need help with some research. Your, er, assistant, the man over there, directed me to the bell.'

  'Did he? Did he now?' Kueller said, staring intently at the crippled man behind the counter. 'He's not my assistant, I'll tell you that now. No idea who is, I have no idea.'

  Khemen was at a loss for words, the bizarreness of the library master had addled his ability to form any clear thought for the moment.

  'That's as maybe,' Kueller said, laying a palsied hand on Khemen's shoulder and directing him towards the lifting contraption with a surprisingly strong thrust of his arm. 'Come up to my chambers and we can discuss what you need.'

  Khemen let himself be led onto the platform, which was barely big enough for the two of them. Kueller fastened the safety rope and pulled the lever again.

  'Don't worry, young man, it's perfectly safe,' Kueller assured him, but Khemen whitened as the chains retracted and pulled them upwards. 'I designed and built it myself. Kueller's Elevating and Descending Apparatus, I call it.'

  'It's very, er, ingenious,' Khemen offered, looking at the square of light they were approaching. 'Steam powered, is it?'

  'Steam?' snorted Kueller. 'No, young man, it is not. Wind power, that's what does it. I have sails on the second gantry lower roof. Wind power, that's what it is. Steam? Hah! Steam needs wood or peat to burn. Wind, there's always wind!'

  'Of course there is, Master Kueller,' Khemen agreed.

  With a squeal of braking, the elevating apparatus ground to a halt, nestling into place on the floor of the room above. The room was shallow, and lit with a few lanterns. The floor curved upwards and he realised that he was standing directly in the bilges of the ship. Shelf after shelf of books lined the walls, tottering haphazardly against each other, some propped up with wooden brackets as the lean of the ship's hull became to steep for the bookshelves to stay upright.

  'Just along here, young man,' Kueller prompted him, directing him along the hull with a wave of his hand. 'Mind your head there.'

  Khemen stumbled over the bare wooden planks, followed by Kueller, who guided him to a small room at the far end of the ship, where once would have been the cable tier where the anchor rope was stored. It was filled with piles of books and parchments, which tumbled over each other in ungainly heaps.

  'So, what can I help you with?' Kueller asked, pushing past and settling onto a stool in the middle of the mess of texts.

  It took all of Khemen's concentration to recall why he had come, and he phrased his reply carefully.

  'I am seeking information about a sword, a very important sword,' Khemen told the library master.

  'Are you indeed?' Kueller replied. 'Well, let's start with what you know already and take it from there.'

  Khemen made a silent wish that this would not take long, because too much of Kueller's company, and the bizarre library itself with its curved, claustrophobic walls, was likely to drive him insane.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Patron

  The Wasteland, Early Spring 1711

  Distant thunder rumbled in the leaden skies, and the first few drops of the coming storm started to patter down onto Ruprecht as he pushed his boat out into the marsh, the mud sucking at his booted feet. Looking up, he felt a chill sea wind blowing in from the west. He pulled his travel cloak tighter and shook the rain from his greying beard. The boat bobbed violently as the burly man stepped over the gunwhale, and he waited a moment for it to settle before clambering over the bundled ropes and netting to grasp the long punting pole. Spitting over the side into the reeds, he took a firm grip on the pole and pushed down, the tip sliding in the muddy bottom of the fen before catching and propelling the boat away from the firmer land.

  On the estuary of the Reik, a few miles from the great port of Marienburg, the marsh stretched out in all directions until finally it simply gave way to the sea. In the dismal early morning light, a few water fowl broke from the water and flew into the air at Ruprecht's approach, as he heaved on the pole. The water gurgled lazily around the hull of the flat-bottomed fishing boat, accompanied by the odd hoot or quack of the geese and ducks that settled in its wake, plunging their heads under the water in search of morsels kicked up from the marshbed.

  As the rain grew heavier, Ruprecht stowed the pole in its lock and pulled free a large tarred canvas sheet. He hitched it up to a hook on the bare mast - there was rarely wind enough to make it worth his while setting the sail - and then tied it to the ends of the sternrail to form a crude shelter. The clouds broke and the rain began to lash down from above, pounding an irregular rhythm on the taut sheet, and Ruprecht sat underneath, content to let the boat drift on the weak current.

  Watching the rain kick up ripples in the water, battering at the rushes and grasses that occasionally broke the surface of the huge mire, Ruprecht sighed disconsolately. Not for the first time, his gaze unconsciously turned to the south, where Marienburg lay. From there he could get passage on the Reik back to the east, back to the Taal where he had learned how to handle a boat as a young boy. He could get away from this dreary marsh, the interminably precarious existence he had eked out of fishing on the marsh for the last year.

  It would be simple to turn the boat around, float the few miles to Marienburg, sell the boat for a few crowns, and then find himself work on one of the barges that travelled to Altdorf and beyond.

  Only it wasn't that simple, he reminded himself ruefully. Word had readied even this desolate place that the orc warlord who had ravaged Solland, the one called Ironclaw, had continued his rampage westward. Even now some claimed that he was devastating the Reikland, that the Prince of Altdorf was besieged in his capital. If that were true, then any travel eastwards would be dangerous indeed.

  And then there was the other reason he could not leave.

  Sensing the rain lightening, Ruprecht peered out from under his shelter. The storm had passed north of him, only its edges had caught the boatman in its wet embrace. The shower continued, but was light enough for Ruprecht to unhook the sheet and take up the pole again. Steering the boat around a hillock covered in long grasses, Ruprecht found the wide pool that had become his favoured fishing ground of late. The fen shifted and moved, and so did the fish, but a few weeks ago he had found the large lake and had since enjoyed reasonable bounty with his catches. Regularly
filled with the tidal flow of the Reik, the pool was deep compared to most of the mire, and Ruprecht suspected that something about the soil just here prevented much of the water seeping away into the rest of the marsh.

  Stowing the pole again, he threw the small drifting anchor over the side and let the boat settle while he prepared his nets. Coiling up the trail ropes, he stood and heaved the first weighted net to his left, as far out as he could. Hitching the rope to a peg set into the boat's bottom, he punted a few yards away to stretch the net out, his course swinging slightly around a centre point marked by the fall of his anchor. He then threw his second net over to the right and with a single push, propelled the boat into a position roughly halfway between the two nets. There he sat down to wait.

  Ruprecht cursed softly and constantly, without repetition, as he hauled in the second net. It, too, was completely empty. From just after daybreak until mid-afternoon he had waited for the fish to come, but none had. He had even thrown in a few old fish heads to lure the meat-eaters to his net - fish heads that he could have boiled down for a soup that night, he reflected bitterly - but it had not helped.

  The thought of food made his stomach grumble, and he reached down under the seat to pull out his small sack. From the hessian bag he brought out half a stale loaf and a chunk of pungent cheese the area was famed for - so much so that 'Reek like a Marienburger Blue' had become a popular saying over the centuries. Tearing off a hunk of bread and popping it into his mouth, he bit into the cheese. He was about to take another bite and then stopped himself. With a resigned sigh, he placed the food back in the sack and stowed it under the bench. Taking up the punt, he began to pole his way northwards.

  A half a mile on, a low structure came into view, half hidden amongst the rushes. It was haphazardly constructed from pieces of driftwood, tied with reeds and grass. Salt-whitened planks were laid alongside dark logs, tears of sailcloth, thick hemp ropes and green-tinged copper sheets. At one side, a spray of coloured blooms grew, the brightness incongruous amongst the dilapidated drabness of the surrounding fen. Ruprecht smiled to himself as the nose of the boat nudged onto firmer land and then stopped. Grabbing his sack, he stepped out into the marsh, his boots sinking into the mire past his ankles. With one strong arm he hefted the boat onto the bank and set off the hundred or so yards to the ramshackle hut.

  'Is someone there?' a voice called out, frail and thin.

  'It's me,' Ruprecht called back, heading through the heavy mud to the other side of the shack. A ragged sheet of blue sail served as a door against the wind. He pulled it to one side and ducked under a lintel made from a lost capstan spoke. The interior of the hut was surprisingly clean and tidy in comparison with its derelict exterior. Fresh rushes were laid on the floor in a crosshatch pattern and a small peat fire drifted smoke out of a window made from an irregular piece of galley grating. At the other end of the hovel an impromptu shrine had been made out of a crude wooden mallet held in a knot of anchor rope. A circle of flowers hung around it. In front of the shrine, head bowed, hands on her knees, sat Ursula.

  For over a year she had been like this, but Ruprecht was dismayed by the sight every time he visited her. Her red hair, once lustrous and reaching down her spine, was shorn short with crude knife cuts, the ends ragged and wispy. She wore a simple, shabby robe of grey linen that was gathered up to her knees.

  'He still hasn't spoken to me,' Ursula murmured, pushing herself slowly to her feet and brushing at her knees.

  'Have you eaten today?' Ruprecht asked, looking towards the small fire. There was no sign of any cooking.

  'No, I wasn't hungry,' Ursula replied listlessly. She wandered aimlessly around the hovel, as if looking for something, obviously confused.

  'What have you lost?' Ruprecht asked after watching her for a short while. He pulled the bread and cheese from his sack and placed it on a rough wooden platter that lay close to Ursula's bedding straw. 'I have something here for you to eat.'

  'Fish?' Ursula asked, turning towards him. 'Have you brought more fish?'

  'No, no fish today, they were scared I think,' Ruprecht told her. 'I'm sorry.'

  'It isn't your fault,' said Ursula reassuringly, glancing at the bread and cheese. 'I was going to see if I could catch something myself today.'

  'Why didn't you?' Ruprecht asked, settling himself onto the floor.

  'Oh, I don't know,' Ursula looked away as she spoke. 'I got caught up in my prayers.'

  'Perhaps you should try praying to Manaan to bring me fish, or Taal perhaps,' Ruprecht said. 'There are some things even Sigmar cannot do.'

  'Nonsense!' laughed Ursula, slightly shrilly. Her voice dropped to a whisper, and she spoke softly to herself, barely audible to Ruprecht. 'Sigmar is my protector. He spoke to me. He will look after me. He will speak to me again.'

  'Sigmar is a warrior god, you should look for his sign on the field of battle,' Ruprecht reminded her. 'I don't know where this fixation comes from, but you will offend the other gods if you continue to ignore them.'

  'Sigmar is my protector.' snapped Ursula. 'It was he who guided me before. It is not for me to judge him, to question why he has left me at this time.'

  Ruprecht sighed heavily, idly picking at the straw on the ground.

  'Just ask it.' Ursula told him.

  'Ask what?' Ruprecht said, looking up at Ursula.

  'Ask me to come to Marienburg with you.' she replied. 'You've mentioned it before, and I can tell you've been thinking about it again.'

  'Well, you know what I think?' Ruprecht said, tossing away the straw.

  'It doesn't matter that nobody recognises us there, that isn't the point.' Ursula said. She bent down and helped herself to a hunk of bread.

  'Then what is the point of hiding out here in these gods-forsaken marshes?' Ruprecht demanded, pushing himself to his feet. 'Do you know why they're called the Cursed Marshes? Because you get stuck in them and don't come out! But the only person who's stuck is you! What do you think you will achieve, in this hermitage of yours? Is it penance? If so, what do you think you have done to deserve it?'

  'I drove Kurt away, you know that.' Ursula replied sadly, dropping the bread to the ground from limp fingers. 'You saw what he became, the monster that I turned him into. How can I forgive myself for that? How can Sigmar forgive me? That's why he doesn't come to me any more, that's why he took the visions away.'

  'Kurt did what he did of his own free will, how many times do I have to tell you?' Ruprecht said, pacing towards the small fire and warming his hands. He stared at the calluses for a while, looking at the scars left by frostbite that afflicted him on the long journey back from Tungask. The scars reminded him of Kurt Leitzig, the betrayer, the cursed one, and his anger simmered inside. 'You didn't drive him to the dark gods. It was Kurt who risked your life, who threw away the comfort and care of your home. He abandoned you, and Sigmar if you like, not the other way around.'

  'So why did the visions go?' Ursula sobbed, tears running down her cheeks. She turned to Ruprecht, her eyes imploring. 'Why has He stopped protecting me?'

  'Perhaps because it is you who's given up, not the gods,' Ruprecht suggested, ignoring the heartache he felt seeing Ursula in distress. He hadn't come here for an argument, he never did, but he was not going to support Ursula in her self-imposed misery. 'You want no part of life any more, you've abandoned the Empire. Perhaps if you went out into the world again, did something yourself to rebuild your life, then Sigmar would look upon you again.'

  'But look at it!' cried Ursula, running to the door and ducking outside, Ruprecht swiftly following her. She stood on the threshold and pointed east over the fens. 'The Empire's out there, a ruin, a shambles of what Sigmar built. They've all abandoned him, destroyed his memory, thrown away his legacy in their selfishness. Marienburg? You want me to go to Marienburg, the city ruled by rich merchants, the count a throne-bound puppet of guilds and swindlers? Or perhaps we should go east again, yes? To Solland? The ashes of Solland, left destitute and alone when the
Empire should have united against the Ironclaw? Or perhaps north to Middenheim, city of the White Wolf, and join their wars against the other states? Or why not just leave the Empire altogether?'

  'And sitting here, away from it all, pretending that life should be better, is the answer?' Ruprecht asked softly, gripping her arm and pulling her around to face him. 'Does that make you better than any of them?'

  'You'll never understand. You weren't touched by Him like I was,' Ursula replied, pulling away. 'Thank you for visiting, and for bringing food. I wish you luck. Travel to Marienburg, sink yourself into their heathen ways and their selfishness. Do what you like, I'll continue to pray for you, and for everyone!'

  Ursula stormed back into the hut, leaving Ruprecht speechless, as the rain began to fall again, spattering on his head and shoulders. He stood there for a long while, his skin glistening in the downpour, his clothes sodden, debating between his desires and his conscience. With sagging shoulders, he eventually turned away and trudged through the muddy puddles back to his boat.

  Arriving back in the tiny fishing village of Thurk, Ruprecht tied his boat up to the jetty and made his way to his lodgings with Frau Bergen. In appearance, the shanties of Thurk were little better than Ursula's hovel. Out in the marshes there was no rock to quarry, and few enough trees to build with. Most of the buildings were constructed from uncut stone, crudely mortared together, with narrow, glassless windows and low doors. Many of them had walls built out of flotsam wood, and were roofed with heavily patched sailcloth. For the burly Ruprecht, it was almost like a village in miniature, and he had come to loathe the cramped confines that had become his home for the last year.

  The few dozen people who lived there, eking out a living on the shore of the Reik estuary, were content with their squalor. They were all descendants of families that had either lived here since time immemorial or who had been outcast from the larger settlements of the region for one reason or another. Outcasts like him, he thought bitterly, as he stomped down the muddy track towards the village, his sack over his shoulder. He was wet, cold and thoroughly miserable.