Slaves to Darkness 02 (The Blades of Chaos)

by Warhammer

  He looked at the nobles and smiled, and grasped the hilt of Ulfshard in both hands to raise it above his head once more. Ursula thought she heard a whisper and turned to look over her shoulder, but no one was there. It felt like a memory from a half-dream she had once had, and was reminded of a bright blue hallow of light.

  'Bow and pay homage to the wielder of the sacred blade, descendant in spirit of the great Marbad himself,' said Luiten. In a hurried wave, the knights and ladies, barons and burgomeisters lowered themselves to their knees or curtsied. Ruprecht lowered himself to one knee as well, and Ursula saw the chancellor bowing low. She folded her arms across her chest and scowled at the count. She looked at Ulfshard and felt the whispering again. To her it looked as if the sword was writhing in the count's grasp, trying to be free.

  'Go and present him with the crown, you silly girl,' hissed Gorstend, shuffling across and tugging at her dress. She hiked up the hem out of his fingers, placed her foot on his shoulder and thrust him to his back. The crown felt cold and heavy in her hand, but she could feel the warmth from Ulfshard and felt drawn towards the blade.

  'With Ulfshard as my symbol, none shall stand against me,' said Luiten, not seeing Ursula who was behind him, his eyes gleaming hungrily as he looked at the blade. 'An army shall rise up in my wake and the great conquest can begin. Peasant and count, all shall fall under my banner or under my sword!'

  Ursula, who had remained standing bolt upright, marched down the carpet towards the count. She remembered the storm, when she had vowed to Sigmar that she would fight for him. She remembered refugees in their thousands, doomed by an Empire torn apart. She recalled the Reiklander captain, using his patrol to secure bribes from travellers while the forces of Gorbad besieged his capital. She saw in her mind's eye the armies of the count falling upon the ravaged walls of Altdorf, the smoking ruins of Nuln, in his quest to claim the throne.

  She could not allow it.

  There was a hushed murmur from the nobles, and seeing their gazes directed behind him, Count Luiten turned just as Ursula reached him. Luiten lowered Ulfshard and glared up at Ursula.

  'Lady Silverblade, what are you doing?' he said. 'Why do you not pay homage to the wielder of Ulfshard?' He saw the crown in her hand and nodded in understanding, his face split by an ingratiating grin. Bending to one knee with much puffing, he held Ulfshard out in front of him and lowered his head for the crown to be placed on it.

  Ursula stepped forward and slapped the crown on to the count's balding scalp. As he looked up, she snatched Ulfshard from the man's grip, tumbling him to his backside. In her hand, the pommel-stone flared into life and a ripple of blue energy passed along the blade.

  'Now I wield Ulfshard,' said Ursula, looming over Luiten, pointing the tip of the glowing sword at the count. There was a shout and the thump of boots as the guards raced across the hall from their positions around the walls. 'Should you not pay homage to me?'

  'I am the Count of Marienburg, legal inheritor from Marbad himself.' said Luiten, pushing himself clumsily to his knees. 'Give me that sword at once!'

  A circle of guards, halberds levelled at Ursula, cautiously closed in on the pair.

  'You are nothing but a fat merchant whose forefathers bought their way into the throne of Marienburg,' said Ursula, her anger still growing, raising the sword away from the count with a glance at the soldiers. 'Marbad himself pledged his allegiance on this blade to another. He swore an oath to Sigmar, great founder of the Empire, to defend the lands of men. Ulfshard was not meant for the glory of a single man, but for the glory of all men, and for Sigmar and the other gods.'

  Luiten crawled along the carpet towards Ursula, hand outstretched, grasping for Ulfshard. The halberdiers advanced on Ursula and she turned. Ulfshard seemed to sense her anger and another crackle of energy pulsed along its blade, causing the soldiers to step back fearfully. They glanced at one another and at the count, unsure what to do.

  'I paid to bring that sword back here, you wretched woman.' said Luiten. Two nobles broke from the crowd and lifted him, panting, to his feet. 'It is mine, Ulfshard belongs to me.'

  'Ulfshard belongs to the Empire!' Ursula said, rounding on the count and advancing towards him. The guards shuffled nervously after her while Luiten gave ground before her stride. 'I gave it to you to unite the counts and their people, not conquer and dominate them. This sword was lost from us on the field of battle at Black Fire Pass. Marbad fought alongside Sigmar, this sword in his hand, to drive back the evils that threatened us. The very same evils that now ravage the lands to the south, that raid and burn our towns to the north.'

  Ursula glanced at the knights and nobles. Some were angry, others, the knights mostly, were staring at her in awe or joy. She saw Leerdamme amongst them, his face a broad, uneven-toothed grin.

  'Warriors of Sigmar, soldiers of the Empire, knights of Marienburg,' said Ursula, holding the shining Ulfshard aloft. 'Now is the time to show our strength! Not with the slaughter of our fellow men, not with the will to dominate all others. No, now we take the fight to those who would see our lands devastated, our people slain and enslaved. Like torchbearers in the darkness, we have this opportunity to shine for the people of the Empire.'

  The knights gave up a great shout, banging their fists on their breastplates and stamping their feet. The noise swelled and Ursula felt as if their approval was lifting her from the ground. As the clamour continued, Ulfshard was wreathed in energy and she could feel its touch warm in her palm. Ursula watched as one of the knights pushed forward, and stepped onto the carpet in front of Ursula. She recognised the familiar features of Johannes, his eyes shining with admiration.

  'My fellow lords,' said Johannes above the din. 'How long have we begged to be set free? I myself took payment for this quest, so that I might be a part of this great endeavour. It is not only your duty to lead your armies against the enemies of Sigmar and his people, it is also your right. Our right to enjoy a future when we are not plagued with fear, when our children can say to their children that they live in safety because those with the power to do so stood up and fought for them!'

  Another triumphant shout echoed around the chamber, and a few of the knights drew their swords and brandished them in the air.

  'Would you follow our glorious count into battle?' asked Johannes, pointing to the puffing, sweating Luiten. Laughter rippled across the crowd.

  'No, we would not,' Johannes said. He walked over to Count Luiten and straightened the Marbad's crown on his head. 'You are our leader and we pledge allegiance to you, but you are no military commander. In the swordplay of politics and economics we have no finer champion, but you are not the man to wield Ulfshard at the forefront of an army.'

  Luiten looked about to argue but then closed his mouth. He looked left and right at the clamouring knights, who had pushed aside the other nobles and ringed Ursula, Johannes and himself. Some gave him encouraging nods, others looked darkly at the woman with the magical sword.

  'Very well,' said Luiten, and a hush descended. 'It is true that there is not a destrier been bred that could carry me on the charge.' There was a wave of nervous laughter at the count's self-deprecation. 'My effort has been spent on the recovering of this blade, so it must fall to another to hold it aloft and lead Marienburg to greatness. The crown of Marbad shall be the symbol of my rulership, and Ulfshard the symbol of my champion.'

  The count waddled along the carpet until he was stood between Johannes and Ursula.

  'Unless any man here would contest my decision, I name Johannes Marshal of Marienburg!' He patted the young knight on the back. 'He shall lift up Ulfshard in our honour.'

  There was another cheer. Johannes stood there, stunned by the declaration. He looked at Ursula, then back at the count, and then at Ulfshard and back to Ursula.

  'No,' he said, and there was a shocked murmur from the assembled people. 'No, I would serve the wielder of Ulfshard, not be the leader myself.'

  Johannes turned from the count and faced Ursula. T
hen, slowly and deliberately, he bent to one knee and lowered his head in deference. Jeers and laughter resounded from the walls.

  'No woman will ever command me!'

  'Give me the sword then, I'll lead the army!'

  'No true man here would follow a woman!'

  At the last shout, Ursula saw Leerdamme scowl and step out in front of the crowd.

  'I will,' he said. 'I will follow a woman if it takes a woman to get you lot off your arses and onto your saddles!' he looked at Ursula. 'My ship is yours, lady.'

  There was quiet for a moment as the knights glanced at each other, unsure. From amongst them strode one of their number, tall, his face lined with age. He carried his plumed helmet under his arm, revealing a thick shock of white hair.

  'I am Lord Boerden,' he said to Ursula, lowering himself to his knee beside Johannes. 'My sword and my men are yours to command.'

  Others followed, until seven knights were bowed before Ursula. She glanced at Leerdamme and then looked at Luiten, who was patting his damp forehead with a lace handkerchief. She looked out at the other nobles. Her anger subsided, and was replaced with a feeling of elation. It all became clear to her then. This was the path Sigmar had guided her along.

  'A warrior's place is on the battlefield,' she said to the crowd. 'In blood and death this Empire was forged. In blood and death it will be reborn. Who would see themselves gloried in the eyes of Sigmar? Who here has the blood of our ancient fathers flowing strong in their veins?'

  'Why not?' came a cry and a young, bearded knight jogged forwards. 'Haven't had a damned battle since I earned my spurs.'

  Then another knight and another knight and another knight came forward, until fully half the knights in the hall were gathered around the bearer of Ulfshard. The others shook their heads or sneered at the group. As one, they turned away and began to walk from the hall. The chancellor, Gorstend, picked his way through the knights and bent to whisper in Ursula's ear.

  'You will receive some backing from my house too, young lady, and I will see to it that Count Luiten endorses the use of the ships of the Marienburg navy for your endeavours,' he said before slipping away to confer with the count.

  Ursula was trembling, her body filled with energy. She felt hot tears running down her cheeks as she looked at the knights knelt before her, their faces gazing up in admiration. Ursula felt a tall, burly presence behind her and she turned. It was Ruprecht. He looked her in the eye, saying nothing, and then shook his head with a lopsided smile, his face a picture of mock exasperation. 'I told you you'd get in bloody trouble.' he said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Homewards

  Norsca, Autumn 1711

  Kurt stood on the shore and looked south out over the Sea of Claws, past the few mangled planks that remained as testament to the last resting place of the longship. The water was calm and still and it was hard to imagine the tumult and death that the bay had witnessed only the previous night. Jakob stood beside him, anxiously shifting from one foot to the other, tugging at his thin beard in agitation. They were an outlandish sight for the cold northern climes, their hair bleached white by months in the sun, their skin dark and peeling. Everything seemed darker here, from the pine trees that grew up the sides of the fjord, to the wooden stockade of the Norscan village set back a few hundred yards from the shore. It felt like home to Kurt.

  'Gafnir is waiting for your answer.' the shaman said, not for the first time.

  'I know.' said Kurt. 'Let him worry what I will say.'

  'Never mind him, I worry what you will say.' said Jakob. 'His claim is right. We have washed up on the lands of his tribe, and he has fed and clothed us. By tradition we owe him a share of the treasure.'

  Kurt spat into the mud and turned on the shaman.

  'Our kinsmen and women died for that treasure.' Kurt said. 'A few rags and loaves do not earn Gafnir and his warriors the right to our glory.'

  'There are only twenty-seven of us still alive, he has two hundred warriors.' said Jakob, glancing over his shoulder to where the Norscan chief stood, the fighters of his warhird lined up behind him with axes, swords and shields ready.

  Kurt followed his gaze and snorted.

  'Look at them.' Kurt said. 'Brave warriors when faced with two dozen half-drowned men and women. If they want loot, they should go and seek it for themselves.'

  'I agree.' said Jakob. 'But there is part of me that remembers your bold plans. You said that we would come back home to recruit an army a thousand strong. Well, Gafnir and his Sneirkin could be the start of that army.'

  'I come from a land where men of importance pay their soldiers to fight for them.' said Kurt. 'Here in the north, we fight for ourselves. They will follow me because they want to earn their own riches, to earn their own place in the eyes of the gods. I will not have them fight for me because I pay them every day to do so.'

  'I would rather not pay them a single gold coin either.' said Jakob. He saw the squat chieftain Gafnir quarrelling with Bjordrin, gesturing towards Kurt with his axe. 'But I would rather not die either.'

  A cold north wind touched Kurt's face and ruffled his hair. It was fresh and clean, tinged with the chill of the coming winter. Kurt's other senses could smell the magic on the breeze - the breath of the gods. It grew stronger as he stood there, and he glanced at Jakob. The shaman could feel it too. His eyes were narrowed and his fingers fidgeted as the power flowed around them, still building in strength.

  'The gods speak in strange ways,' said Kurt, turning and striding up the beach towards Bjordrin and Gafnir. Jakob stood there for a moment, not paying attention. As Kurt's words filtered into his thoughts, his eyes widened with shock. He gave a wordless shout and hurried after his master, feeling his rune-stones jittering with energy in the pouch at his belt.

  'I have your answer,' said Kurt, stopping a few paces from Gafnir.

  'You do?' the chieftain said, displaying his sharpened teeth. He bore a blue tattoo of a twin-headed serpent across his cheeks and nose, curling up to his forehead. 'One chest of gold, or my axe is the price.'

  Kurt let the magic that was swelling around him flow into his body. He drew his sword slowly and held it across his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, Kurt saw Bjordrin notice the tension growing in the Chosen's body and the Norseman stepped back, realising what was about to happen. Jakob was muttering something behind him, and the scrape of swords being unsheathed and axes unslung sounded from Kurt's warriors further along the beach.

  Gafnir puffed out his chest and hefted his axe in both hands.

  'Do not choose death, it would be a waste,' said the chieftain. 'Three dozen challengers have fallen to my blade, I would not have you as the next.'

  'Nor I,' said Kurt with a smile.

  The blade of Kurt's sword flared into fire, a deep red flame bursting along its length as he exerted his will. Gafnir's attention was fixed on the flaming weapon for a moment, and that was all the time Kurt needed. A single backhand stroke, and Gafnir collapsed to the ground, his body split from shoulder to thigh in clean halves. The two pieces of his severed axe lay in the mud at Kurt's feet.

  With a roar, the Sneirkin charged down the beach, and Kurt leaped forward to meet them, his sword decapitating and dismembering to his left and right with arcing blows. Axes blunted on Kurt's inhuman flesh, swordpoints glanced off his hardened skin and maces snapped against his iron-like bones as the enemy tried to bring him down.

  Kurt waded through the Sneirkin as if they were children, just as he had done when he had unleashed his full power against the soldiers of the Nordland fort half a year ago. Shields were shattered by his fist, limbs torn free by his blade, clothes, beards and hair set alight as bursts of flame erupted from the tip of his sword. Moving with the speed of a striking snake, Kurt hacked and chopped through the enemy warriors, and in a few dozen heartbeats some thirty of them lay dead on the ground.

  When the rest of the Fjaergard, who had been watching their champion with some glee, joined the fight, the enemy tribe
threw down their weapons and dropped to the ground, some of them turning and fleeing in terror. Though they outnumbered their foes by six-to-one, the Sneirkin knew when they were up against a force they could not defeat.

  The people of the Sneirkin were assembled outside the palisade of their village, dejected and miserable. Kurt had given them the previous day and night to pack their belongings for the long march to Fjaergard. By Bjordrin's reckoning, their home lay some five hundred miles to the east over the treacherous fjords and mountains of Norsca. Kurt had commandeered the tribe's three wagons to carry his treasure, drawn by the fittest Sneirkin warriors, while he rode between them on Gafnir's horse. It was a commendable steed, a little under fifteen hands, chestnut in colour and full of lively spirit.

  It felt good to be in the saddle again. Raised and trained as a knight, Kurt knew the power of a mounted warrior, and after the long months at sea it felt natural for him to be astride a horse once more. He patted the horse's neck and turned it towards the beach. The other Fjaergard waited for him there. Using the driftwood and hastily built rafts from the longship, they had built two great pyres for the dead - one for the fallen Fjaergard who had died in the shipwreck and been washed ashore, another for the Sneirkin who had been slain by Kurt the day before. In honouring their enemies, the Fjaergard honoured themselves for their victory, in the hope that when they finally fell in battle they too would be treated with similar respect.

  His warriors were lined up along the shore, weapons unsheathed, raised in tribute to those who would now fight alongside the gods. He walked the horse slowly along the beach.

  Kurt stood in the stirrups and looked at the Fjaergard pyre. There was no need for words, no self-important, sombre eulogy such as would have been given in the Empire. The people here knew those who had died, and what their deeds were. Their sagas were over, but would join the great saga of the Fjaergard and in turn the epic story of all the Norse.