Slaves to Darkness 02 (The Blades of Chaos)

by Warhammer

  The thane, his head reaching only just above Ruprecht's belt line, peeled away from his unit and strode towards the burly Talabheimer. His beard was black and streaked with silvery grey, twisted in an intricate plait that was tucked into his belt. He stood with legs wide apart in front of Ruprecht, and rested his hands on the hammer he planted handle-first in the dust. His bright eyes glowered up at the man from beneath bushy eyebrows.

  'Are you leader here?' he said in a gruff voice, nodding towards the hammer that Ruprecht still leaned upon.

  'What?' he said before gathering himself. 'Ulric's teeth, no! But I'll welcome you all the same.'

  'Your welcome is not wanted, and I expect none in return,' the dwarf said. 'Point me to your leader so that I might have strong words with the disrespectful manling who brings orcs into the lands of Karak Norn.'

  CHAPTER TEN

  Warnings

  Arabian coast, Early summer 1711

  Kurt and the other Fjaergard spent the time until sunset searching for food and water, but the land seemed bereft of either. They found not a single track upon the ground to show that there were animals nearby, and never once saw a bird crossing the sky. The only water they could find was from a brackish pool not far from the sea, which they drank from sparingly, fearing it was tainted. Even the water around the coast was devoid of fish.

  As their campfire burned that night, smoke billowing across the foreign stars that dotted the clear skies, Kurt walked away from his adopted kinsmen, leaving them to their complaining. He was in two minds over what to do. They could stay and see what the city had to offer, but without fresh water and food, and no surety that they would find more soon, the deserted buildings might become their tombs. If they left in search of sustenance, they might never find their way back here, and the possible treasures hidden close by.

  The murmuring of the Norsemen and the crackle of the fire was swept away by the dull lapping of the sea as Kurt wandered further from the camp. He was tired to the point of collapse, and could not imagine how exhausted the other, less gifted, warriors were. He would let them sleep tonight, would do so himself, and would make a decision in the morning. He would ask Bjordrin if he was confident of locating the strange city again, and if so they would venture further east looking for more fertile lands.

  Kurt's skin was raw from sunburn, and the hot breeze made his flesh prickle. Sand had worked its way into his boots as he had climbed over the dunes earlier, and it now nagged at him, gathering uncomfortably between his toes. This was truly a land forsaken by the gods. Their raw, powerful breath that had blown so fiercely in Fjaergard was just a distant whisper here. Perhaps that was why he felt so tired, he realised. The energy of the north that flowed through his veins had been leeched from him, robbing him of his gifted abilities, perhaps even making him a mere mortal again. It was not a pleasant thought, and though he still yearned to return in triumph rather than failure, he now doubted the wisdom of his bold adventure.

  A movement amongst the dunes caught his attention, and there was a sudden gust of wind, spraying sand into the air. Something tickled at Kurt's nerves, an unknown sense agitated by a change he could not quite define. Scanning the shoreline, he saw nothing for a moment, but then another surge of wind made something pale flap not far to his right. Staring across the moonless night, Kurt caught sight of a figure, standing still and silent atop the nearest dune.

  Easing his sword free, Kurt took a couple of steps closer to the watcher, unsure whether his mind was playing tricks on him, or whether there was a man stood there. Approaching closer, he saw that his senses had not deceived him.

  The man was short, the top of his bald head reaching no higher than Kurt's chest. He was as thin as a skeleton, parchment-dry skin hanging off his bones in cracked folds. The stranger was dressed in a simple white linen robe, its hem embroidered with small faded pictograms. A great semi-circular collar rose up from the man's shoulders and behind his head, looking like a setting sun, or perhaps a rising full moon. He leaned on a staff as tall as Kurt, its head fashioned in the shape of a hissing cobra. A priest of some kind, Kurt immediately thought.

  'Ahekh asan lami annu Nephythys qo?' the man said, his voice as dry as a desert wind, when Kurt was only a few paces away.

  'I don't understand,' Kurt said. The man seemed to be no immediate threat, but Kurt kept his sword held up. He had long ago learned not to judge by appearances. The man stood in thought for a moment, his wrinkled brow creased deeper, before he spoke again.

  'Ifinnia tel athroth, Nephythys athin anninir,' the priest said. The words were halting elvish, and as the stranger spoke them, they rang in Kurt's ears, burning his hearing.'Tel athroth Nephythys falan!'

  'Stop it! Stop talking!' said Kurt, unthinkingly reverting to his native Reikspiel in his agony He dropped his sword and clamped his hands over his ears to block the echoes reverberating in his mind. 'No more!'

  'Ah, from tribes of the citiless you come,' the priest said in a heavy accent, nodding to himself. Kurt released the sides of his head and stooped for his sword. 'You not need weapon, I am no harm.'

  Kurt picked up his sword all the same, and held it close across his chest. 'Who are you?' he asked, casting a glance back along the beach. He could see the glow of the campfire, and knew that it would only take a shout to alert the others.

  'I am named Amen-athep, high priest to great King Nephythys, Hawk of the Skies, Sorrow of the Foe, Wielder of the Golden Blade,' the priest replied, the words coming by rote from his mouth, as if he knew the titles of his king in many languages.

  'I am...' Kurt said, and then stopped. What was he going to tell this man? That he had come here to raid and pillage? 'I am Kurt Sutenmjar, of the Fjaergard. My ships lie in the bay. We have no food or water.'

  'I know. I watched you. You come upon a bad shore for these things,' Amen-athep told him. 'Nehekhara is not a land of plentiful bounty it was.'

  The name struck a chord in Kurt's mind. Nehekhara, most ancient human civilisation of the world. But the legends claimed that Nehekhara had been destroyed, torn asunder by famine, plague and civil war. That would explain the deserted settlement - they were not in Araby at all, but in the lands of a realm that had died thousands of years ago. Though it did not explain how the priest came to be there.

  'Nehekhara, you say?' Kurt said.

  'Nehekhara, yes,' the priest said with an emphatic nod. 'We do not know the Fjaergard.'

  'We come from the far north, where the deserts are made from ice,' Kurt explained. Despite his warlike intent in coming here, Kurt realised that he might perhaps be able to gather supplies without bloodshed. His fighters were too weary for battle. 'We have never come this far south before.'

  'What are ice?' said Amen-athep. 'What is desert of ice?'

  Kurt thought for a moment. The idea of snow was as alien to the priest as the idea of a desert was to the Norsemen. He pointed northwards.

  'It is cold in the north, and water falls from the sky,' he said. He clasped his cloak around him and pretended to shiver, and then mimicked snow falling from the sky by waving his fingers over his head.

  'Our history tell that when great Settra, the Hawk Eternal, Ruler of the Desert and the Winds and the Waves, stretched his hand across the world, his armies fight in lands where rivers fall from the sky,' Amen-athep said, nodding slowly in understanding.

  'Can you help us?' Kurt asked directly, sheathing his sword as a display of good faith, though he felt a fleeting pang of conscience at the falsehood. As a knight of the Osterknacht, he had been taught that honour and nobility overruled all other considerations. As a marauder of the Norse, he had learned that the world was a harsh place, and a man only gathered what he took for himself. He dismissed the momentary guilt.

  'I have prepared for your arrival,' Amen-athep said, a toothless smile upon his face. He pointed back along the beach and into the dunes a little way. 'Food and water, for tonight and for your journey, lies here.'

  'For our journey?' Kurt asked cauti
ously. Amen-athep's smile disappeared and his dead eyes bored into Kurt's.

  'You will leave at daybreak,' the priest said. 'Do not enter the city. Do not take anything that is not left for you. Do not disturb the eternal rest of King Nephythys, Hawk of the Skies, Sorrow of the Foe, Wielder of the Golden Blade.'

  'Are you threatening us?' said Kurt, hand straying back to the hilt of his weapon. 'I do not trust a man who offers succour with one hand, yet conceals a blade with the other.'

  'No threat,' Amen-athep said in his rasping voice. 'Warning.'

  'A warning of what?' Kurt asked, eyes narrowed.

  'You will leave at daybreak,' the priest said. 'Do not enter the city. Do not take anything that is not left for you. Do not disturb the eternal rest of King Nephythys, Hawk of the Skies, Sorrow of the Foe, Wielder of the Golden Blade.'

  'I do not take orders from the priests of dead gods!' Kurt said.

  'Not order, warning,' Amen-athep said. 'You will leave at daybreak. Do not enter the city. Do not take...'

  '… anything that is not left for you,' Kurt spoke along with the priest. 'Do not disturb the eternal rest of King Nephythys, Hawk of the Skies, Sorrow of the Foe, Wielder of the Golden Blade. Yes, you said that twice already.'

  'Heed my warning: no man may enter the city,' Amen-athep said. He clasped his staff in both hands and plunged it into the sand between his feet. A flurry of wind and sand enveloped the two of them, and when Kurt cleared his eyes, he saw that the priest was gone. He thought for a moment that he could see a small dust devil whirling across the dunes, against the wind, but then it was gone.

  Kurt stood at the crest of the dune, contemplating Amen-athep's words. His thoughts were interrupted by a shout from the direction of the camp. He turned and began to run down the beach. The glow of torches bobbed in the starlight and Kurt headed towards the nearest. The lights were gathering near the spot that Amen-athep had indicated and Kurt hurried forward.

  Crossing a dune, Kurt saw that many of his warriors had gathered in a hollow not far from the beach. At the centre of the sandy bowl were set three long tables, covered with cloth of faded blue and woven with fraying golden thread. Platters of silver studded with opal and jade sat atop the tables, filled with all manner of food, and beside the plates sat golden ewers filled to the brim with deep red liquid. Beside each table was also a square chest of dark wood bound with bronze and studded with gold-headed rivets.

  'Do not touch it, it is cursed.' warned Bjordrin, who was holding back the starving Norse a little way from the feast. He looked up and saw Kurt approaching. 'Chosen One, this strange banquet has appeared from nowhere.'

  'Not from nowhere,' argued Snarri Gold-tooth, pointing to the ground. Kurt could see tracks in the sand: thin, bony footprints and the mark of sandals. 'These were brought here for us.'

  'It might be enchanted, or poisoned,' argued Lina Half-wolf.

  'It is a gift,' Kurt declared to them and they stopped their arguing and looked at him. He thought for a moment, deciding how to explain the strange meeting with the priest. 'These are the dead lands of Nehekhara, and we will find no other sustenance here or for many miles. I will eat first, to ensure there is no trickery.'

  'No, Chosen One, I shall test the food,' said Aelfir, striding to the nearest table and snatching up a handful of dried figs. 'You are our leader and should not risk yourself for us.'

  Kurt pounced forward, his hand closing around Aelfir's wrist as he raised the figs to his mouth. He prised the warrior's fingers open and took the fruit in his other hand.

  'I am gifted with a constitution greater than any mortal man,' Kurt explained. 'What might kill a man such as you will only cause me a fever. I am the Chosen, it is I who protect you, not you who protect me.'

  He shoved the figs into his mouth and chewed slowly. They tasted syrupy, and as he ate Kurt realised just how dry his mouth was. He grasped the handle of one of the jugs and took a mouthful of the contents. It was wine, full-bodied and smooth. He stood there for a moment, savouring the taste.

  'The gift is true!' he declared with a laugh, upending the ewer and pouring the wine down his throat in great gulps. 'But do not eat too fast or you will be sick.'

  The other Norse walked forward, gingerly picking at the stale hunks of unleavened bread and piles of dried fruit, passing around the wine jugs.

  'How did such a great banquet come to be here?' asked Lina as she scooped a handful of withered nuts into her mouth. The others slowed their eating and looked at Kurt for an answer.

  'These are the lands of Nehekhara.' Kurt told them as the rest of the crews ventured into the hollow, drawn by the shouts of their comrades. He was conscious that Amen-athep had claimed to have watched them earlier, and he chose his words carefully lest they be overheard by unseen spies. 'Dead for a hundred generations, this land still has those who watch over the tombs of the ancient kings. It is a gift from these priests, to welcome us to their realm.'

  'Such wealth, I've never seen anything like it.' said Aethwine as she picked up one of the empty platters and held it up to the light of the torches. It was made of iron, but patches of gold leaf could still be seen around the edges, which were embossed with images of warriors in chariots carrying long spears and bows. 'The treasures of the kings of old must be great indeed if their guests dine with such finery!'

  There were calls of assent and nodding heads, and Kurt remembered the priest's words. He debated for a moment, wondering whether he should pass Amen-athep's warning to the others, but dismissed the idea. Unwittingly, the priest had solved Kurt's dilemma; they now had food and drink, and Kurt resolved that they would investigate the city tomorrow. A few priests, regardless of their petty tricks, would be little match for a Chosen of the gods and his warriors. He remained silent and waved the others to continue eating. There was no sense in warning Amen-athep and his brotherhood that tomorrow the Norse would take what treasures they could find, warning or no warning.

  It was not long after daybreak when Kurt led his warriors to the ghost city, the sun still casting long shadows from the high wall and square towers. Despite the early hour, the sun was already hot and Kurt was sweating heavily inside his armour. His palms were greasy on the hilt of his sword and he stooped to rub sand between his fingers to firm his grip. They had found the remnants of an ancient roadway running parallel to the coast, scattered flagstones half-hidden beneath the sands, and had followed it to a small gatehouse facing eastward. The two gates were high and wide enough to allow perhaps four horsemen to ride through at the same time. A scene was picked out in tarnished gold, depicting a triumphant procession of a returning king, standing in a large chariot at the head of a column of horsemen and archers.

  Kurt stood at the head of the party, examining the door. Jakob was next to him, his rune-stones clasped in his hand.

  'The stones are growing warm,' the shaman warned quietly, glancing nervously over his shoulder towards the other Norse who were standing a few steps further back. 'There is magic here.'

  'I feel it too,' Kurt said, eyes not moving from the scene on the door. The king held a long spear above his head, and rays of light shone from its tip, still clearly picked out in a fine tracery of marble in the dark sandstone. 'It does not feel like the breath of the gods, though. It's deeper, slower. I can feel it rolling sluggishly around me.'

  'Yes.' agreed Jakob with a shudder. His straggly beard had turned almost white in the sun, and he stroked at it with blistered fingers. 'It is deep within the ground.'

  Kurt stood a moment longer before reaching out a hand to push at the gate. It stayed firm against his hand.

  'Barred from the inside.' he murmured, and looked up at the two squat towers flanking the gate arch. He turned and nodded to Lina, Aelfir and Snarri. 'You three, up the left tower with the ropes. Aelfwine, with me up the right.'

  The warriors unslung the grapple-ended ropes they had brought from the ships and swung them with practiced ease into the embrasures of the parapet above. Kurt sheathed his sword and
drew two long daggers from his belt. Just as he had done at the Imperial fort, he plunged the knives into the stone, burying them halfway to the hilt with his inhuman muscles. He smiled with pleasure that his god-given strength had not deserted him. Pulling himself up on one hand, he pushed the other knife into a thin crack between the sandstone blocks and so ascended quickly up the tower wall. Aelfwine, axe strapped across her back, pulled herself quickly and surely up the rope beside him. With a last heaving effort, Kurt pulled himself over the parapet, landing catlike on the walkway beyond. Glancing across the gateway, he saw the others reaching the top of the other tower and gave them a wave before pointing down towards the roadway on the inside of the gate.

  Lowering himself from the parapet with his fingers, Kurt dropped to the ground, knees bending to absorb the fall. In an instant, his sword was in his hand as he stood there ready, eyes scanning the deserted, dust-strewn street that ran directly away from the gate.

  'The gates are not barred.' Aelfwine said from behind him, having descended more slowly on the rope, and he turned and looked. Sure enough, there was no metal or timber locking bar in sight. 'Magic perhaps?' she suggested nervously.

  'No, I would feel it.' Kurt assured her. He saw a small doorway into the watchtowers, and ducked into the closest. The room was bare except for a thick layer of dust and ancient, rotten scraps of wood littering the floor. Leaving the guard room, he crossed over to the other tower, just as Lina, Aelfir and Snarri were descending. In this tower was a huge wheel of bronze, laying horizontally on a stone hub, connected by a half-rotted belt and a gear to a toothed bar that disappeared through a hole in the wall and into the gate itself. Sand was piled in the corners where it had been blown in from the outside.

  'Snarri, help me with this.' he called outside, and the gold-toothed Norseman entered, blinking in the gloom. Kurt pointed to the spars that protruded from the wheel at right angles. Snarri nodded his understanding and grasped the spar as Kurt bent his back to another. They strained for a long while, the gear grinding against the belt, but to no avail.