Slaves to Darkness 02 (The Blades of Chaos)

by Warhammer

  'Try now.' suggested Lina, pushing forward a lever that she'd found hidden in one corner. Kurt felt the wheel give as the brake was released and exerted himself again. He heard the rustle of hidden ropes and the scrape of the wheel on the stone plinth. With a screech, the gigantic bolt began to slide back into the room, and the wheel turned easier as the accreted sand of many centuries spilled away from the gears.

  There was a snap from overhead and the wheel spun without resistance, toppling Kurt and Snarri into the dust on the floor. The wheel continued to turn, and Kurt saw that with the settling of the lock another gear had been brought into place, and from the doorway he could hear the stone gates scraping at the sand that the wind had piled up inside. Three more circuits of the wheel and the gates were fully open.

  Walking outside, Kurt found the rest of his war party gathered in the half-opened gateway, staring at the city beyond. He had left Jarlen with the ships and enough men to defend them if necessary, giving him forty warriors, and Jakob. The shaman was standing at the threshold, foot hovering as he hesitated to step into the ancient city. A shove from behind propelled him forward and he stumbled under the shadow of the gateway.

  Beyond the confines of the two watchtowers, the roadway broadened into a wide boulevard that stretched out of sight, Kurt presumed, to a similar gateway on the other side of the city. The centre of the boulevard was studded with octagonal walls, some of them filled with the dusty remnants of pools and fountains, others with blackened trees.

  Jakob walked to the closest and, climbing over the low wall, reached out a hand to a withered branch. It collapsed into ash at his touch, the black flakes scattering in the warm breeze and coating the shaman's arm. He hurriedly wiped the soot from his reddened skin and stepped back with a wide-eyed look towards Kurt. The Chosen shrugged and shook his head. They set off up the road, passing between the low, flat-roofed buildings to either side.

  Doorless openings and glassless windows stared out at them as they marched warily up the boulevard, which was crossed at several points by other roads, some narrower, others even wider still. Many were decorated with strips of opal and turquoise laid in geometric patterns around the doors and windows. Courtyards could be seen through high archways, supported by pillars of marble and embedded with lapis lazuli. At each junction the ruins of a fountain or statue could be found, some of them sculpted in the form of tall, slender warriors with the skull-heads of giant hunting cats, fanged snakes, jackals, hawks, crocodiles and other, less identifiable, creatures. In their hands they held different shaped blades, some as long as a man is tall. The statues were pitted with age, their features worn away by the wind, others with cracks running through the stone. The blades, though, were as sharp as fresh steel, as Aelfir found out to his shock when blood spilled from his thumb as he tested the metal.

  At the centre of the city were four immense pyramids arranged around a wide square, stretching over five hundred feet into the sky. From the one closest to Kurt's left, they ascended in size as if the next one in the square was trying to outdo its neighbour. At the centre of the square was a tall pillar, nearly as high as a longship's mast, with a girth wider than a man's shoulders. At the top of the pillar was a statue that glinted in the sun, carved from huge blocks of turquoise. Kurt recognised the king from the depiction on the gateway, though the statue held more detail.

  The king had an arched nose and a long, thin beard, banded with beaded strips, hung to his chest. He was clad in a breastplate shaped as rippling muscles, and a cloak draped from his shoulders and lay crumpled around his sandaled feet.

  Held above his head in both hands was the great spear of the king, its long serrated head still gilded. This must be the Wielder of the Golden Blade, thought Kurt, the great Nephythys. Kurt felt a momentary humility as he looked into the worn features of the majestic king. With a snort, Kurt chided himself. Nephythys was dead, and would have no need of the treasures that had undoubtedly been buried with him.

  Kurt decided to leave the towering pyramids for later investigation and split the warband into two to search the nearest of the smaller buildings. Ducking through the low doorway, Kurt found himself in a small antechamber, bare of furnishings and with a relief carved into the wall. It showed a long line of men, each hauling on a rope that dragged a massive block on log rollers. At the end of the fresco was a half-completed pyramid with a strange icon carved over its flat peak. Beside the pyramid was a caricatured face of a man, the same symbol carved into a locket around his throat.

  'A master builder, or some other craftsman,' muttered Jakob from just behind Kurt. The Chosen turned and gave him a quizzical look. 'This is the tomb of one of the pyramid builders, the pictures show him in charge of the slaves.'

  'You seem to know quite a lot about this place for a Norseman,' Kurt said, studying the fresco in more detail. Indeed, the figure of the man with the symbol appeared in several other places, riding atop the dragged stones, at the bottom of what appeared to be a quarry and at a table that was laden with fruit and surrounded by fan-bearing slaves.

  'I have always been intrigued by these ancient wonders.' admitted Jakob with a distant smile. 'As soon as I first heard these legends, I always asked travellers I met if they knew any tales of these lands. The ancient kings believed they would become immortal if they were buried with the proper rites in these giant tombs. They had their wealth buried with them so that when they returned from the realm of the spirits, they might live on in undying glory until the end of the world.'

  There was another dark doorway leading deeper into the building and Lina came forward with a guttering torch and passed it to Kurt. He took it in his left hand and stepped through the entrance, sword held in front of him.

  At the centre of the next room was a rectangular plinth, on top of which was set an ornate coffin. The dark red wood was cracked and blistered with age, faded to white in places, and the smell of ancient, untouched dust hung in the air. Either side of the doorway behind Kurt were two small niches cut into the wall, each holding a bronze urn capped with a lid shaped like the semi-circle sunset of Amen-athep's collar. There was a fine script inscribed into an oval at the front of each urn.

  'Look here!' said Snarri, pointing his torch towards a much larger alcove in the far wall. There was a stack of four small plates of gold, surrounded by four silver goblets and a bronze salver. There were similar stashes of ornate gold statues and silverware in alcoves in the walls to the left and right.

  'Just a master builder?' asked Kurt with a raised eyebrow directed at Jakob, who stood hesitantly at the chamber's doorway.

  'Yes, these would not be considered riches by the kings,' Jakob replied, stroking a hand along the carved wooden lintel of the low door. 'Even the treasure from these minor tombs would be enough to make us the richest tribe in all of Norsca!'

  'And the pyramids?' Kurt asked, pushing past the others who were crowding into the tomb so that he stood in front of the shaman. 'What wealth lies within those?'

  'Gold, silver, gems, rare stones, weapons, armour, clothes, whole ships some even say,' said Jakob, his voice a harsh whisper. 'The greatest pyramid alone probably holds more riches than an entire state of the Empire!'

  Snarri laughed loudly, and slapped a hand to Kurt's shoulder.

  'And they've just left it here,' said Snarri. 'We can take what we like!'

  'It is not that easy,' said Jakob. 'I have heard that there are traps and curses on the treasures of the kings. These are the personal belongings of his slaves and servants, but the pyramids are said to be guarded by ancient spells and arcane mechanisms that will kill the unwary.'

  'But think of all that treasure,' said Snarri, rubbing his hands together. 'More wealth than a count, you say?'

  'More than we can certainly take with us today,' Kurt said with a shake of his head. He hadn't liked the pyramids. They had gnawed at his unconscious magical sense in a disturbing way. Not the bright, energetic flare of raw magic, but a deep, dark well of old power. Kurt would rat
her not venture into them with the few tired warriors he had.

  'We will take as much as we can,' he said. 'We will return to Fjaergardhold in glory, and we will buy weapons and armour and the loyalty of other tribes. Then we will return in force and take the treasure of these dead kings! We will show them that their time has long passed, and it is the age of the Norseman that shall see the end of the world!'

  Needing no further invitation, Kurt's companions grabbed the ornaments, cups, plates, statuettes, jugs and other artefacts from the tomb's alcoves. They took their cloaks from their shoulders to use as sacks, and used their upturned shields as trays to take the bronze coins that spilled from small chests placed at the foot of the coffin. With a laugh, Kurt led them outside, and stood there for a moment, dazzled by the bright sunshine.

  Across the road, Bjordrin led his party down a winding staircase, coming out into a large chamber that spread beneath the road. The roof and distant walls could not be seen in the circle of light cast by the torches of the Norse.

  All they could see were row upon row of armoured figures. At first, Bjordrin took them to be statues, but on closer inspection, he saw they were half-decayed skeletons, somehow still bound together after these many centuries. They were dressed in armour inlaid with turquoise and lapis lazuli, and carried shields of hide reinforced with bronze rims and bosses. Each held a curved bronze blade in its right hand, arm crooked tight to its side as if it were standing to attention.

  It felt chilly out of the sun, and Bjordrin could feel his sweat trickling coldly down his spine and the back of his legs. The way the torchlight flickered on the ranks of skeletal faces, casting shadows into empty eye sockets, made the faces seem to come alive with snarling expressions. He called the others back, the braver souls having started to wander down the seemingly endless ranks and files of dead soldiers, and hastened back up the stairwell.

  Bjordrin was glad to reach the blinding light of the surface again, and watched the rest of the party stumble into the sunlight, shielding their eyes against the glare from the pale sandstone buildings and marble road.

  'Where's Aelfir?' he asked, noticing that the warrior had not come up with the rest of them.

  'I think he said he was going back to get one of those swords,' Myrta replied, wiping sweat from his face with the back of his hand and shaking beads of perspiration from his long blond beard.

  'I'm not waiting for stragglers,' said Bjordrin, stalking away, uncomfortable with the raw fear he had felt in the chamber below. 'He can catch up.'

  In the dark hall beneath their feet, Aelfir's decapitated body lay next to his head, its face twisted with horror. The sword of the warrior that was still standing to attention over his body glistened with fresh blood.

  At the heart of the largest pyramid, Amen-athep twitched with fright as a deep, dusty voice echoed along the corridor.

  'Priest!' the voice called in the tongue of Nehekhara. 'Attend me!'

  His serpent staff tapping on the ancient flags, Amen-athep made his way along the twisting maze of passages into the central burial chamber. There sat King Nephythys's sarcophagus, its lid cast to the sand-covered floor. As the priest entered, a clawed, skeletal hand clasped the side of the coffin and Nephythys pulled himself into a sitting position. His gold-threaded burial robes hung in frayed tatters around his chest and arms, the flesh underneath withered and rotten beneath greying skin. Upon his head he still wore his golden crown, pierced by shining diamonds, a ruby the size of a man's fist held in a mesh of golden wire at its peak. Eyeless sockets glowed with a baleful green light as the king turned towards his high priest.

  'I warned them, oh great King Nephythys. May the sun never set upon your brow,' said Amen-athep, bowing low, his ancient joints cracking.

  'They have spoiled the resting place of Arhana, architect of this very chamber, builder of the vessel of my afterlife,' the king said.

  'There are but a few of them, oh great Nephythys, within whom the sacred flame shall forever burn.' Amen-athep bowed lower as he spoke, placing his staff upon the ground in deference. 'They will depart with but petty artefacts. They dare not enter your magnificent tomb.'

  'Enough!' the king said, his rasping, bitter voice echoed off the mural-covered walls and the golden statues of the Nehekharan gods that circled his sarcophagus. He pulled himself up, his tattered cloak falling over the edges of the coffin around thin, withered legs. 'Is it not insult enough that they come here to plunder the riches of my people? For a thousand years I waited to return from the life of the spirit, to reclaim my lands in the golden body you promised me. But you lied to me, and I returned in this cadaverous mockery of my glorious form.'

  'My lord, oh great Nephythys, I did not lie,' said Amen-athep, lowering himself until he lay prostrate on the dust-covered flagstones. 'It was the traitor, the renegade whose name we dare not speak...'

  'Enough, I have heard your excuses before,' said the king. 'Instead of an eternity of glory, I find filthy northern barbarians everywhere, sacking our ancient cities, lining their holes with our gold and gems. Well, not this time, not under the gaze of mighty Nephythys! Fetch my armour! Bring my blade! I command you to awaken the ushabti, call forth my tomb guard, raise my warriors from the sands of their burial. As king I declare that the sun shall set upon the unmarked graves of these coarse thieves.'

  BOOK TWO

  CHAPTER ONE

  Audience

  Karak Norn, Late summer 1711

  Ursula had heard the expression of having one's breath taken away, but she had never truly understood its meaning until she entered the King's Hall of Karak Norn. For three weeks they had been staying in the dwarf hold at King Hunkrik's invitation. Thane Grundab, who had led the counter-attack against the orcs and goblins, had initially bid them to turn back and return to Middenheim. He had become even more adamant when Lady Halste had made her mission known to him, but in the end grudgingly conceded to escort the survivors of the caravan to his king.

  Since then they had been effectively the dwarfs prisoners - though their every need was attended to. The dwarfs were courteous and, once the stories of the humans' defeat of the giant began to spread, their hosts became positively welcoming, for dwarfs. However, despite the hospitality of the hold's inhabitants, the expedition had been restricted to a few chambers close to the great gate by which they had entered. Their weapons, horses, mules, carts, baggage and anything the dwarfs considered even vaguely suspicious had been taken away to be stored elsewhere - though they were each given a neatly written receipt, in khazalid, for the possessions that had been confiscated.

  On the twenty-fifth day of their luxurious captivity, Grundab had returned with his personal guard and told them that King Hunkrik, who was very busy by all accounts, could now give them an audience.

  So it was that they had followed the greybeard from their chambers onto the main thoroughfare of the hold. It was a corridor wide enough for ten men to walk abreast without touching shoulders, and two dozen feet high. Carved from the rock of the mountain itself, it passed along through vaulted arches inscribed with scenes of mining, smithying, battles and treasure hordes. Smaller tunnels, just as neatly dug and trimmed, branched off at regular intervals, some level, others heading upward or downward or gently spiralling out of sight. Some of the archways led to stone steps and through a few of them Ursula spied wide bridges spanning chasms and deep caverns. On more than one occasion they heard the echoing trickle of underground streams.

  They had been led on for several miles in this manner, neither turning nor pausing, until they were brought to a halt. Then, one-by-one, they had to pass through a small opening cut into the side of the main corridor, high enough only for a man to pass through at a stoop. As she passed beyond, Ursula had found herself in a round chamber, a hundred feet across at least, wherein were dotted scores of low chairs in neat rows.

  'Is this the King's Hall?' she had asked one of the dwarfs standing to either side of the opening they had been led through. The dwarfs beard had b
ristled with indignation.

  'No,' he had replied gruffly. 'King's Hall there!'

  His pointing finger directed Ursula's attention to the far wall. What she had taken for a large mural carved into the striated stone was in fact an enormous pair of doors cut into the wall itself. When they had all been brought in and carefully but insistently ushered and arranged to the dwarfs' liking in front of the doorway, the portal had opened and it was then that Ursula's breath had been taken away.

  Light streamed out, a blaze of torches, firepits, lanterns and candles, causing a solid wave of heat to hit Ursula, who was standing in the most forward line next to her mistress, Lady Halste. It wasn't the heat alone that deprived her of breath.

  Beyond the great doors, which stretched up fifty feet to the ceiling of the cavernous chamber, the King's Hall stretched out before them. That ceiling, supported by massive columns as thick as ancient oak trunks, was covered in a glittering layer of gold and silver, cunningly wrought to resemble stylised stalactites, which were studded with the pinprick reflections of thousands of gems. Giant lanterns, the largest as tall as a man, hung from gilded brackets thirty feet above her head, their light spreading out from specially designed panes to strike the ceiling at the correct angle, reflecting back on to the people below as a diffuse glow.

  The chamber was a massive square, stretching nearly half a mile from the door to a wide flight of steps up to a dais on which were five thrones. Taller and larger than the rest, the king's throne was at the centre, and the thrones for his queen and three eldest sons or cousins were spaced at regular intervals slightly behind and to the side.

  Hunkrik himself could be seen standing next to his throne talking to Queen Hadri, and the floor and steps were thronged with dwarfs of all descriptions - engineers, miners, thanes, clan dwarfs, runesmiths and gate wardens were all debating in grumbling clusters. A short horn blow from a dwarf to the left of the gateway echoed around the chamber and the chatter ceased. King Hunkrik sat upon his throne and waited while Lady Halste, flanked by her maids and followed by Ruprecht, the freelances and other mercenaries, made their way solemnly along the hall between the giant pillars.