Slaves to Darkness 02 (The Blades of Chaos)

by Warhammer

  'Southerners?' said Kurt, utterly bemused. 'What southerners?'

  CHAPTER NINE

  Dark Beginning

  Coast of Norsca, Autumn 1711

  The whispered swearing of the soldiers and sailors sounded muffled and flat in the still night. The sea and sky to the east was tinged with the purple predawn glow, but overhead the sky was dark and cloudy.

  'Here, take this,' said Johannes, handing Ursula a thick woollen cloak. She was standing on the quarterdeck of the Graf Suiden listening to the thud of boots as the troops disembarked into the boats drawn alongside the greatship. She pulled the cloak over her shoulders and looked at Johannes. The knight was dressed in his plain battle armour, and stood with one hand on the hilt of his sword, staring at the dim shadow of the Norscan coast.

  'I thought it might never happen,' Ursula said, hugging the cloak tightly to ward off the early morning chill.

  'I'm pretty amazed myself.' said Johannes with a smile. 'But then, you are an amazing person.'

  Ursula smiled too and turned away. Unconsciously, she touched the hilt of Ulfshard, hung at her waist in a new scabbard. It had seemed so simple to do when she had held the sword aloft in the hall of the count and swore to bring justice to the northmen raiding and pillaging the lands of the Empire.

  That had been thirty-two days ago, the first twenty spent organising the campaign. Despite the pledges from her knights, it had taken that long to assemble the army. Army, she thought. There were barely a thousand men all told. Not exactly the crusading host she had fondly imagined.

  Not only had they to get all the soldiers to Marienburg from their various postings across the Wasteland, but also to secure the berths on enough vessels to carry them across the Sea of Claws to the land of their enemies. The knights had insisted on bringing their horses, which only added to the problems of space and provisioning, and then they had to have boats built to take the men ashore. That had meant another ship needed just to carry those boats, and the sailors to man it.

  Even when everything was in place - the ships crewed and laden with victuals, the horses aboard with the farriers and blacksmiths, the soldiers provisioned and armed, the knights and priests brought aboard - there had still been delays.

  Ursula had begun to understand just how much effort it took to wage war. She wondered how it could be so easy for counts and generals to order an attack, and yet so difficult to make it actually happen. It had occurred to her more than once that men of power must dearly love war for it to occur so often. All the effort spent on arming a man, teaching him to fight, instilling in him the discipline to kill was a considerable endeavour.

  Was it worth the effort, she wondered? Were the ambitions of such men worth the expense, the time and the lives? Had it been this that had brought the Empire so low? With such resources going into the playing of politics and waging of personal war, was it no surprise that the Empire's true enemies grew in number and made bold attacks. The state of civil war that had crippled the Empire had made it weaker and weaker, consuming itself and its ability to protect its lands from the beasts that dwelt just beyond its borders, hungrily looking on.

  Now Ursula hoped she would change that.

  There were eight vessels in her small fleet: the greatship, four wolfships and three merchantmen that had been quickly modified to act as floating barracks. They had to leave Marienburg in two waves because the tides were not good at this time of year. That had meant another day wasted while the fleet assembled further up the Reik. Bad winds had delayed them for two more days, and so it was not until the morning of the twenty-fourth day since she had confronted the count that she actually saw the open sea.

  The sailing up the coast of Nordland and into the Sea of Claws had been a nervous one. They had watched as beacon fires sprang from clifftop to headland along the route, warning of their progress, the Nordlanders fearful that they were the target of the fleet's warlike intent.

  Their apprehension had passed when they had rounded Salzen Point and entered the Sea of Claws proper. Now all that lay between them and the bases of the marauders were one hundred and fifty miles of sea.

  Ursula remembered the conversation that had passed between her and Captain Leerdamme three days ago.

  'So, you've got the whole of Norsca to choose from,' he had said. 'Where do you want the fury of Ursula to fall first?'

  'It is not anger, it is justice,' Ursula had said, annoyed at the captain's intimation.

  'Of course it is,' Leerdamme had said. 'But if it were up to me, then I know exactly where I'd want to strike first. I'd go after those Fjaergard. What they did to that Nordland village earns them first pick by my reckoning.'

  Ursula had felt a strange pang at the mention of the name. She had almost forgotten it in the busy weeks that had passed. Now it rang home again.

  'Yes,' she said. 'Let's deal with the Fjaergard first.'

  Now she looked down the slowly emerging fjord at the village that lay beyond. Was Kurt there, she wondered? She doubted it. From everything Leerdamme had mentioned to her and Ruprecht, it seemed like Kurt was the mysterious captain that Leerdamme had chased onto the rocks and destroyed.

  No, she decided, it wasn't Kurt she was after. He was dead and buried, and one day the memory of him would be too. It was the Fjaergard she hated now. The Fjaergard who had performed the final sacrilege on him at Jakob's urging. There had been a tiny hope that he might have been saved until Hrolfgar and his men had taken Kurt to themselves and given him his unholy initiation into their ways. They were evil corrupters. Not only did they murder, rape and steal, their presence was an affront to everything the Empire stood for. Their gods were dark, horrific deities, founded on death, fear, sorcery and greed.

  She knew she could never kill them all, she had heard the tales that there were more marauder tribes, more northern barbarians, than all the men of the Old World combined. It was not her plan or ambition to wipe them out. She had a much simpler purpose.

  She wanted them to be afraid.

  She wanted them to know that Sigmar still protected his lands against their kind. She wanted their sagas to hint darkly at the warriors of the Empire and warn against raising their ire. She wanted the Norse to be afraid of the Empire for a change, after centuries of the Empire being afraid of them.

  The Norse chose to live by fire and sword, and now Ursula would bring fire and sword to their homes. They would know the terror of having a ship approach, laden with soldiers intent on their deaths. They would know how fear can spread from village to village, crippling people with dread, forcing them to flee their homes to save their lives.

  'We should be ready to go before sunrise,' she heard Leerdamme say, and she turned to see the captain talking to Johannes. Ruprecht followed him up onto the quarterdeck.

  'I think they know we're here,' he said, nodding towards Fjaergardhold. In the moonlight, they could see the masts being raised on the two longships pulled up on the shore.

  'Doesn't matter.' said Leerdamme with a grunt. 'They can't escape, and they'll never get close enough to hurt us. Brave of them to try, though.'

  'No, they're not brave, they're just stupid.' said Johannes with a glance at Ursula. 'They're no better than animals, breeding out of control. No, they need to be culled.'

  Ruprecht looked at Ursula, one eyebrow raised. She ignored him.

  'You do realise you're about to start a war, don't you.' said Leerdamme, leaning close to Ursula.

  'What do you mean?' she said.

  'How angry do you feel right now?' Leerdamme asked. 'What do you feel like as you look at that nest of bastards over there?'

  Ursula thought about it for only a short while.

  'I feel justified.' she said. 'They deserve nothing else. They have never shown mercy, compassion, or kindness. We should show them none of these things either.'

  'And what do you think of the Norse?' Leerdamme said, pointing towards the dimly-seen figures working around the longships.

  'They see themselves as a
force of nature.' Ursula said, remembering something Jakob had once told her and Kurt. 'They call themselves wolves, and our people sheep. They say that they make us strong because we must protect ourselves against them. They love only to fight and to steal and to kill.'

  'And what happens when you make a Norseman angry?' Leerdamme asked next.

  Ursula shuddered. Unwanted memories of Tungask came flooding back. She pictured Kurt, shot through with crossbow bolts, still walking and fighting. She remembered his sword igniting, immolating Marius van Diesl. Her spine tingling, she recalled with horror the daemons of blood that Jakob had brought forth, and their joyous slaughter of the Osterknacht knights. She remembered seeing Kurt's eyes as he'd looked into van Diesl's face, the fury and murderous intent written there.

  'What is your point, captain?' she said, knowing that her silence was answer enough.

  'What we're about to do is going to make the Norse very angry indeed,' Leerdamme said. 'Can you imagine how they are going to react when they realise what is happening? Do you understand what we're about to unleash on the world?'

  Ursula did not reply, but stood there looking at the boats as they bobbed on the waves, waiting for the cannon signal to begin the attack. There would be bloodshed, she knew. Many people who trusted her would die. She might even die herself.

  The Norse would react violently, that was what Leerdamme was telling her. They would strike out at everything and anything. Back in the Empire, families were in their beds, waiting for the morning to rouse them. They had no idea of the horror about to be unleashed. Some of them would be dead soon, murdered by the vengeful Norse. Victims who might otherwise never had felt the terror of seeing a longship prowling their coast, the horror of a raiding party burning down their house, murdering their relatives and friends.

  She told herself it could not be avoided. Had Sigmar worried about such things? Had he hesitated as he led the Unberogen people on their great conquest? He had been a warrior-king, a warlord who was different because he had a vision greater than any other warlord's. He had seen a united mankind as the only way they could survive the dangers and enemies that beset them. Thousands died at his command, either for him or against him, until he had driven out his enemies from the seas to the mountains.

  It didn't matter though, Ursula knew. Over and above all her other reasons, there was one thing that made her sure she was doing the right thing. Whether it was Sigmar who guided her, or not, she knew why the Norse had to be killed.

  They had taken Kurt from her.

  They hadn't killed him, they had twisted him into a monster. While they still lived, Kurt's shame still lived. Only when they were dead would Ursula know the peace that she craved. Only when she had visited her retribution on those who had destroyed her one chance of a happy life would she be content.

  'Burn it to the ground,' she said. 'Kill any Norse you find.'

  Leerdamme nodded and walked away. Johannes smiled at her but she didn't notice. She was looking across the sea towards her enemies. Ursula drew Ulfshard and the sword bathed the greatship in its blue haze. Seeing the signal, a wolfship to her right began its bombardment, its cannons firing on the longships as the Norse pushed them out into the water. The soldiers shouted curses and prayers as the sailors bent to their oars to take them to land. Cannonfire crashed from the greatship, shaking the vessel as it threw tons of iron at the town at the end of the fjord. 'Well, it's started then,' said Ruprecht. Ursula smiled grimly and nodded.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Revelation

  Slangothold, Autumn 1711

  It was a night of celebration in the town, to mark the gathering of the five warhirds from along the coast. The banging of drums and hornblows rose into the air with the smoke from a hundred fires lit by the army camped outside Slangothold's walls. Out in the water lay the ships of their fleet, at the centre a massive kingship that belonged to Narthur. While their warriors feasted and revelled ashore, the champions and their companions had gathered on the deck of the kingship.

  Narthur called it the freigattur - the Free Gathering - when champions and warbands could come together for a common cause. The appearance of the Imperial vessels had been noted several days ago and Jolnir, Gothir and Undar had come to Slangothold because it was the largest settlement along a hundred-mile stretch of coast in both directions. Kurt thought it was luck that had brought him to the port at that opportune time, but Undar was not so sure.

  'It is a sign from the gods.' the champion of the Hathens said, a two-pint drinking horn in his hand, his raven-black hair swept back with a silver circlet fashioned in the shape of a dragon with its wings spread. 'You have escaped the enemy once through strength and daring, and the gods have brought you to join with us so that you can face them again.'

  Kurt did not reply, but smiled, dipping his own drinking horn into the open barrel that the champions were gathered around. Narthur laughed and slapped a meaty hand on Kurt's shoulders.

  'I think our Fjaergard friend is feeling out of place.' Narthur said. 'What is wrong, Sutenvulf?'

  'This is my first freigattur.' said Kurt. 'I have never heard of such a thing before. I have always learned that I must fight the Chosen of my enemies, not drink with them.'

  'And so you should.' said Jolnir, his face except for his nose and mouth obscured by his helmet. He was clad from toe to scalp in heavy black plate, etched with golden runes and hung with chains. Over his shoulders he wore a long cloak of white bearskin, its gilded skull adorning the top of his helm. The exalted warrior of the Skaerlings was even taller than Kurt, and his looming presence dwarfed the other Norse on the ship.

  'But we are not enemies, Narthur has declared the freigattur.' explained Undar. 'I spoke to Gird, he told me how you slew his brother with a single blow, and that your sword blazed with the fire of the gods. If our meeting were different, I would be honoured to cross my axe with your sword.'

  Kurt nodded in thanks. The ship rolled on the swell beneath his feet, and he realised the sensation was as pleasant and reassuring as being in the saddle again. His new horse was ashore still and would be brought on board tomorrow.

  'Your shaman tells me that you are from the south, from the Empire.' said Jolnir. 'But he also says that you have the heart and spirit of a northman.'

  'It felt like a homecoming, that's certainly true.' said Kurt. The wind strengthened for a moment, and the board of the ship creaked. The sound was as natural to Kurt now as the call of the birds. 'I certainly do not feel that I am a foreigner.'

  'And you shouldn't.' said Narthur. 'The gods have put fire in your veins. They have had their eye on you since you were brought screaming into this world. It is obvious that they approve of you, for now at least.'

  The champion's words gave Kurt cause for thought and, with a nod to excuse himself, he strolled to the stern of the kingship to relieve himself over the side, away from the talking of the other Chosen.

  Kurt's concern was with the truth of Narthur's words. Had he been marked from birth? And if so, did that mean that the witch hunter, Marius van Diesl, had been right? Was his family corrupted by Chaos? The words didn't make sense. There was no corruption, there was only the will and the power of the gods. It was the foolish resistance to this simple truth that made the Empire so weak. They pretended that their lives mattered, that somehow they could change the world or make a difference. Some yearned for fame or might of arms, others to be loved or for health and a long life.

  Kurt had learned that none of these things mattered. The gods would do as they wished. All that mattered was to serve them well, perhaps entertain them with your exploits, and endeavour to leave a story worth telling. The world would not change. The northern gods were the world, and they were immortal and all-powerful. To try to destroy them, by destroying those who recognised their greatness, was like trying to destroy the wind by burning down windmills. The windmills might fall, but the breeze would still blow.

  In their ignorance and fear, the people who had raised Kurt did n
ot realise that the key to achieving their dreams lay in their hands. If they seized that power, recognised what the gods would offer them in return for their service, then there was nothing they could not do.

  Had he not done this very thing? He had been a poor, ill-respected young knight of the Osterknacht. Hounded and hated by those he had sworn to protect, abandoned by the woman he had pledged his life to, he had been on the brink of death and oblivion.

  But the gods had steered him along the true path. Through Jakob's teachings and his acceptance of the power of Chaos, he had striven to achieve his dreams. He was rich beyond imagination, and in only a matter of days he would see his beautiful wife and his strong, healthy son. He was standing here amongst the greatest warriors of Norsca, and they respected and feared him. Soon he would be leading them to even greater glory, and all this many seasons before his thirtieth year.

  A shout from Narthur attracted his attention and he realised that he had been standing at the ship's edge gazing out across the dark sea. He turned and walked back along the ship, taking a hunk of mutton proffered to him by Bjordrin, who had just arrived on board with Jakob and Gird, carrying food from the banquet fires ashore.

  'You seem to like your own company a little too much!' said Narthur with a deep laugh. Kurt grinned and took a large bite from the mutton leg.

  'I am forced to keep my own company to maintain the standards I'm used to,' said Kurt, raising a laugh from the others.

  'I have walked this world for seventy summers.' said Jolnir, his helmet tilted down to talk to Kurt. 'In that time I have seen many things. But you, Sutenvulf, you are new to me. You carry yourself as if the gods themselves were at your every call. In your first raid, you travel to the sea of sands and battle an army of the dead and steal their treasure. There are Chosen and there are champions, and there are those who will rise above us all in their greatness to become princes and kings.'