Table of Contents

Cover

Table of Contents

Title Page

Warhammer

Map

Now... Spring 2522

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

About the Author

Legal

This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it isa land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forestsand vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reignsthe Emperor Karl Franz, sacred descendant of thefounder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.

But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering Worlds Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands ofthe Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever nearer, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

Now...

Spring 2522

I

Dawn was minutes old and already men were dying. From where he knelt by a smouldering campfire, Kaspar could hear their screams of pain, carried on the cold wind that blew from the valley mouth and silently commended their souls to Sigmar. Or Ursun. Or Olric. Or whatever deity, if any, might happen to be watching over them this bleak morning.

Scraps of mist clung to the ground as the sun weakly climbed through the pale sky, replacing the descending full moon and casting its watery light on the valley as two armies greeted the new day and prepared to slaughter one another. Kaspar stood stiffly, massaging his swollen knee and wincing as his aged bones cracked. He was too old to be sleeping on the ground again and he ached all over from the cold.

Thousands of men filled the valley: pikemen from Ostland, halberdiers from the Ostermark, archers from Stirland, Kossars from Erengrad, swordsmen from Praag and scraps of bloodied regiments trapped in Kislev following the massacre at Zhedevka. They roused themselves from their blankets and stirred smouldering fires to life. From where Kaspar stood, he could see perhaps two-thirds of the army, some seven thousand men from the Empire and a further nine thousand from the city of Kislev and its surrounding stanistas. The mist and slope of the land conspired to conceal another six or seven thousand warriors from his sight.

It had been many years since he had commanded soldiers in battle and the thought of sending these brave men to their deaths, many of them barely old enough to shave, brought a familiar sadness and humility.

Hundreds of horses whinnied and stamped their hooves, aggravated by the presence of so many soldiers and the smell of cooking meat around them. Squires calmed their masters’ steeds with soft words while Kislevite lancers painted their own mounts’ coats with the colours of war and secured feathered banners to the saddles. Black-robed members of the Kislevite priesthood circulated through the army, blessing axes, lances and swords as they went, while priests of Sigmar read aloud from the Canticle of the Heldenhammer. Some men claimed to have seen a twin-tailed comet during the night and, while no one was quite sure what kind of an omen it was, the priests were taking it as a sign that the patron deity of the Empire was with them.

Kaspar himself had dreamed of the comet, watching it blaze across the heavens and bathe the land in its divine light. He had dreamed of the Empire wracked by war, its mighty cities cast down and its people exterminated: Altdorf burned in the fires of conquest and the northern fastness of Middenheim drowned in blood, its inhabitants hung by their entrails from the top of the Fauschlag. Barbarous northmen and monstrous beasts that walked on two legs rampaged through the ancient streets of his beloved Nuln, ravaging and burning everything in their path while a young, golden-haired youth, hefting his father’s blacksmith’s hammers, rose to fight them.

He shook off such melancholy thoughts and made his way through the army. He had slept apart from his comrades, unable to relinquish his guilt and unwilling to share his grief after what he had done at the foot of the Gora Geroyev the previous week.

Drays laden with bags of powder and shot plied their way across the muddy ground, sweating muleteers and muscled teamsters struggling to keep them from becoming bogged down. They lurched towards the higher ground where the banners of the Imperial Gunnery School fluttered above massed lines of heavy cannon. Braziers smoked where the gunners waited for the order to fire, and engineers in the blue and red livery of Altdorf plotted ranges for the mortars dug into gabion-edged artillery pits behind the cannon.

Kaspar moved around a dray carrying halberds, billhooks and pike shafts and made his way to where his black and gold banner billowed next to the purple gonfalon of the Knights Panther. His own horse was corralled with those of the knights and was being fed and watered by Kurt Bremen’s squire. Kurt himself knelt in prayer with the rest of his knights and Kaspar did not interrupt their devotions, helping himself to a mug of hot tea from a pot steaming above a nearby fire.

Pavel snored beside the fire, his massive frame wrapped in furs, and despite everything that had transpired over the past months, Kaspar felt a surge of affection for his old friend. He sipped the hot tea, wishing that he had some honey to sweeten it with, but smiling at the ridiculousness of such a notion here and feeling the dregs of sleep fade from his head. He cast his gaze north, towards the mouth of the valley where forty thousand northern tribesmen of High Zar Aelfric Cyenwulf’s horde also prepared for battle.

‘Just like old days, eh?’ said Pavel, finally emerging from his bedroll and reaching for a hide skin of kvas. He took a mighty swig and held it up to Kaspar.

‘Aye,’ agreed Kaspar, swallowing a mouthful of the strong liquor. ‘Except we’re both twenty years older.’

‘Older, yes. Wiser, well, Pavel not know about that.’

‘You’ll get no argument from me on that score.’

‘Do they come at us yet?’

‘No,’ said Kaspar, ‘not yet. But soon they will.’

‘And we send them back north without their balls!’

Kaspar chuckled. ‘I certainly hope so, Pavel.’

Silence fell between the old comrades before Pavel said, ‘You think we can beat them?’

Kaspar considered the question for several seconds before saying, ‘No, I do not think we can. There’s just too many of them.’

‘Ice Queen say we will win,’ said Pavel.

Kaspar looked towards the top of the valley sides as the mournful bray of a tribal horn sounded from far away, desperately wanting to believe that the Ice Queen was correct. The mist and smoke from the campsite obscured all but one of the great standing stones that gave this valley its name.

Urszebya. Ursun’s Teeth.

A swelling roar built from the mouth of the valley, guttural chanting from the High Zar’s warriors that echoed in time with the clash of their swords and axes on iron-bossed shields.

The Ice Queen claimed these stones were worth fighting for.

Kaspar just hoped they were worth dying for.

CHAPTER ONE

Six Months Ago

I

‘Neither the climate, manners nor diversions of the place suit either my health or temper and the only pleasures I may indulge in are eating and drinking – yet Sigmar knows I have scarce tasted much worse in my time as an ambassador of our noble Emperor than I found here.’

– Letter to Altdorf, Andreas Teugenheim, former ambassador to the court of the Tzarina Katarin

Kaspar von Velten reined in his bay gelding and stared up at the great walled city of Kislev, unwinding a woollen scarf from around his face. Autumn was barely a month old, yet the day was bracingly chill and his breath misted in the air before him. He knew that winter came early in Kislev and it wouldn’t be long before the hillside the capital sprawled across was locked in its icy grip. A fine, wind-blown rain drizzled from the sullen sky and Kaspar could well understand the dislike of this country’s climate that Ambassador Teugenheim had expressed in his letters.

His deep-set blue eyes had lost none of the brightness of youth, but were set in an expression of tense anticipation, his skin tanned and leather-tough from years of campaigning across the Old World. Beneath his wide brimmed hat, he wore his thinning silver hair close cropped, his beard similarly neat and trimmed. A faded tattoo from his youthful days in the ranks snaked its way from behind his left ear and down his neck.

Sunlight glittered from the spear points and armour of soldiers walking the ramparts of the massive wall, their fur-lined cloaks flapping in the wind. Kaspar smiled as he remembered Teugenheim’s description of the first time he had seen the city in his letters home to Altdorf…

The city rises from the oblast like a jagged spike on the landscape, dominating the countryside around it in a vulgar fashion that is only to be expected of this rude nation. The walls are high and impressive to be sure, but how high must a wall be before it becomes unnecessary? It seems that these Kislevites have built their walls higher than any I have ever seen, and the effect is, though impressive, somewhat gauche for my taste.

Kaspar’s trained eye swept the length of the wall and took in the lethal nature of the defences. Machicolations were cunningly wrought within the decorative gargoyles at the wall head and smoke curled lazily upwards from prepared braziers on the ramparts. The precise construction of the protruding towers and gatehouse ensured that every yard of rocky ground before the walls was a killing zone, covered by crossbows and cannon fire.

Teugenheim’s descriptions scarce did the scale of the fortifications any justice and Kaspar knew from bitter experience that an attacker would pay a fearsome toll in blood to breach these walls.

A cobbled roadway wound up the Gora Geroyev, the Hill of Heroes, to a wide bridge that crossed a deep ditch and led to a studded timber gate banded with black iron and protected by murder holes in the stone roof.

Though he had fought and led armies in Kislev before, Kaspar had never had occasion to visit the capital city before, but knew good fortifications when he saw them. These walls were amongst the most steadfast defences he had ever laid eyes upon, at least the equal of Nuln or Altdorf. However, unlike either of those cities, Kislev’s walls had a smooth, glassy look to them, as though the stone had vitrified under some intense heat.

Perhaps the most common tale sung by the more prosaic bards and troubadours of the Empire was of the Great War against Chaos, a mythic epic which told that in times past, hordes of the northern tribes had laid siege to this mighty city before being routed by an alliance of elves, dwarfs and men. It was a rousing tale of heroism and sacrifice, which had been embellished wildly over the years. The most common embroidery of the tale, added by its more imaginative tellers, was that the mutating powers of the dark gods had caused the solid stone of the walls to run like molten wax. Most scholars dismissed this as pure fancy, but looking at the walls of this city, Kaspar could only too readily believe every one of those embellishments.

‘Sir?’ came a voice from behind him and Kaspar snapped out of his reverie.

Behind him stood a black, mud-spattered carriage, emblazoned with the golden crest of Nuln. A scowling old man, his skin like a craggy mountainside, was seated on the cushioned buckboard holding the horse teams’ reins loosely in his one good hand. Further back were four covered wagons, their contents and passengers protected by oiled canvas. The drivers shivered in the cold and the horses impatiently stamped the muddy roadway. Huddled miserably on the back of the last two wagons were sixteen young men, the lance carriers and squires of the giant knights in shining plate armour who ringed the small convoy. The knights rode wide-chested Averland steeds, each dressed in embroidered caparisons and not one beast less than sixteen hands high. The armoured warriors wore the threat of their power like a cloak; a potent manifestation of the might of the Empire’s armies. They held their heavy lances proudly aloft, purple, gold and lilac pennons attached below the iron tips fluttering in the breeze.

Grilled helmet visors obscured their faces, but there was no doubting the regal bearing of each and every knight. Damp panther pelts were draped across their shoulder guards and both the Imperial standard and Kaspar’s personal heraldry flapped noisily in the stiff breeze from a knight’s banner pole.

‘My apologies, Stefan,’ said Kaspar, ‘I was admiring the fortifications.’

‘Aye, well we should get inside the walls,’ said Stefan Reiger, Kaspar’s oldest and most trusted friend. ‘I’m chilled to the marrow and your old bones don’t take well to this cold neither. Why you insist on riding out here when there’s a perfectly good carriage is beyond me. Waste of bloody time bringing it, if you ask me.’

The knight riding alongside the carriage turned his head, his displeasure at Stefan’s familiarity obvious despite the lowered visor. Many an Empire noble would have had a servant flogged for speaking in such a familiar tone, but Stefan had fought alongside Kaspar for too many years for either of them to put up with such formal nonsense.

‘Less of the “old”, Stefan, you’ll be in the temple of Morr before I.’

‘Aye, that’s as maybe, but I’m much better preserved. I’m more like a fine Tilean wine – I improve with age.’

‘If you mean you become more like sour vinegar, old man, then I’m in total agreement with you. But you’re right, we should get inside, it won’t be long before it’s dark.’

Kaspar dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and dragged the reins in the direction of the city gates. The lead knight also spurred his horse, riding alongside Kaspar as they crossed the wide, stone bridge and approached the gate. He raised his helmet guard, revealing a chiselled, patrician face, lined with concern and experience. Kaspar slapped a gloved hand on the knight’s shoulder plate.

‘I know what you’re thinking, Kurt,’ said Kaspar.

Kurt Bremen, the leader of the knights, scanned the warriors on the battlements seeing several had trained bows on them, and his frown deepened.

‘All I am hoping,’ replied Bremen in his clipped Altdorf accent, ‘is that none of the soldiers up there have loose bow fingers. How you permit the lower orders to address you is none of my concern. My only priority, Ambassador von Velten, is to see you safely to your post.’

Kaspar nodded, ignoring Bremen’s oblique disdain for his current task, and followed his stare. ‘You don’t think highly of the Kislev soldiery, Kurt? I commanded many of them in battle. They are wild, it’s true, but they are men of courage and honour. The winged lancers are the equal of any Empire knightly order...’

Bremen’s head snapped round, his lip twisted in a sneer before he realised he was being baited. He returned his gaze to the walls and nodded grudgingly.

‘Perhaps,’ he allowed. ‘I have heard that their lancers and horse archers are fierce, if reckless, warriors, but the rest are lazy Gospodar scum. I’d sooner entrust my flank to a free company.’

‘Then you have a lot to learn about the Kislevites,’ snapped Kaspar and pulled ahead of the knight. The gates swung wide on well-oiled hinges and Kaspar found himself confronting a man with the longest, bushiest moustache he had ever seen. He wore a threadbare surcoat depicting the bear rampant over a rusted mail shirt and chewed messily on a chicken leg. Behind him stood a detachment of armoured soldiers with crossbows and spears. He cast an appraising eye over Kaspar before sliding his gaze across to the carriage and wagons behind him.

‘Nya, doyest vha?’ he finally barked, obviously drunk.

‘Nya Kislevarin,’ said Kaspar, shaking his head.

‘Who you?’ said the man finally, his Reikspiel mangled and barely intelligible.

Bremen opened his mouth to speak, but Kaspar silenced him with a gesture, dismounting to stand before the gatekeeper. The man’s eyes were bleary and red and he had trouble focusing on Kaspar. His breath was foetid and stale.

‘My name is Kaspar von Velten, the new ambassador to the court of the Ice Queen of Kislev. I demand you and your men stand back from the gateway and allow my party to enter the city.’

Kaspar pulled a scroll bearing the Imperial eagle pressed into a wax seal from within his doublet and waved it beneath the gatekeeper’s veined nose. He said, ‘Do you understand me?’

In a brief moment of clarity, the man noticed the knights and the flapping banner and stumbled backwards. He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the soldiers behind him who gratefully retreated into the warmth of the gatehouse. Kaspar replaced the scroll and swiftly swung back into the saddle. The gatekeeper sketched a drunken salute to him and Kaspar smiled as the man said, ‘Good welcome to Kislev.’

II

Kaspar blinked as he emerged from the darkness of the gateway into Kislev. A cobbled esplanade filled with market stalls and shouting traders lay before him, the air thick with the smell of fish and sound of cursing voices. Three streets led deeper into the centre, each one similarly choked with people and pack animals. Kaspar inhaled the pungent aroma of the bustling city. The buildings here were well constructed of stone with tiled roofs of clay. The clatter of wagon wheels sounded behind him and he pulled his horse to one side as Stefan drove through the gate.

‘So this is Kislev,’ said Stefan, unimpressed. ‘Reminds me of Marienburg. Too cramped, too noisy and it smells of fish.’

‘You can moan about this posting later, Stefan. I want to get to the embassy before our intoxicated friend sends word ahead.’

‘Pah! That drunken fool probably doesn’t even remember us by now.’

‘Probably not, but it won’t hurt to be sure,’ said Kaspar. He turned in the saddle to address Kurt Bremen and waved his hand at the three streets ahead.

‘You’ve been here before, Kurt. Which is the quickest way to the embassy?’

The leader of the knights pointed up the central street, ‘There. The Goromadny Prospekt leads through the city to Geroyev Square. The embassy is behind the high temple to the wolf god.’

Kaspar laughed. ‘Even in their town planning they thumb their noses at us, putting a Sigmarite nation’s embassy behind Ulric’s temple. Oh, they are sly these Kislevites. Come, let us be on our way. I’m sure Ambassador Teugenheim will be only too happy to see us.’

The wagons and carriage began forcing their way slowly along the Goromadny Prospekt. The streets were thronged with people hurrying about their business, well dressed in warm fur cloaks and woollen colbacks. They were a fierce looking people, saw Kaspar, shorter than most folk of the Empire, but they carried themselves proudly. Here and there he could see grim, swaggering figures clad in armour and furs, reminiscent of the Norse raiders who plagued the coastal settlements on the Sea of Claws. Bremen and the knight with the banner pole parted the sea of scowling Kislevites with their giant destriers, Kaspar and the others following behind.

Lining the gutters and street corners limbless beggars were pleading for a few kopecks, and painted whores hawked their wares with weary resignation. The city reeked of desperation and hopelessness. Much like any city in the Old World these days, reflected Kaspar.

The wars of the past year had brought hardship to all corners of the world and forever changed the landscapes of the Empire and Kislev. Whole swathes of the Ostermark, Ostland and southern Kislev had been laid waste by the march of armies, and famine stalked the land like a hungry killer. Following the calamitous defeat at Aachden, tens of thousands of blood-soaked tribesmen had invested the Empire city of Wolfenburg. The hopes of Kaspar’s nation now rested on this grand northern city holding out until winter when the enemy army would freeze and starve. Should it fall before then, the road south to Altdorf would be wide open.

Hordes of refugees, thousands strong, were fleeing south from the armies of the northmen and entire communities were now little more than ghost towns. These were harsh times to be sure, but there was something else as well – an undeniable tension that had nothing to do with the drums of war, as though people did not wish to linger outside any longer than they must. Strange...

A flash of colour further up the street drew his gaze and he saw a gleaming dark green carriage coming from the opposite direction. The design was old fashioned but regal and Kaspar noticed that the Kislevites happily moved clear of this vehicle’s path without the grumbling that accompanied his own passage. The lacquered door bore a crest depicting a crown encircling a heart and as the carriage passed, Kaspar caught a glimpse of a woman with raven black hair through the open window. She nodded towards Kaspar and he craned his neck to follow her carriage as it travelled the way they had just come. Soon it was lost to sight, turning a corner to follow the line of the city walls.

He turned his attention back to the street, wondering at the identity of the woman, and sharply pulled back on the horse’s reins as a black-robed figure leapt in front of him. The man’s garb marked him as one of the Kislev priesthood and his face was lit with an expression of lunacy that Kaspar liked not at all. He touched the brim of his hat respectfully and pulled the horse left to move round the man, but he stepped into Kaspar’s way once more. Not wanting any trouble with the local church, Kaspar forced a smile and pulled his horse away again. Once more the priest moved to block his path.

‘You will be judged!’ he yelled hoarsely. ‘The wrath of the Butcherman shall fall upon you! He will cut out your heart for a sweetmeat and your organs will be a banquet for his delight!’

‘Ho there, fellow,’ snapped Kurt Bremen, riding in front of Kaspar. ‘Be about your business. We don’t have time to dally with the likes of you. Go on now!’

The priest pointed a long, dirt-encrusted finger at the knight. ‘Templar of Sigmar, your god cannot help you here,’ he sneered. ‘The Butcherman’s blade will open your belly just as easily and his teeth will tear the flesh from your bones!’

Bremen drew his sword partly from its scabbard, showing the dirty-faced priest the gleaming blade meaningfully. The man spat on the ground in front of Bremen and turned tail, sprinting nimbly away from the knight. The crowd soon swallowed him up and Bremen let his sword slide back into the scabbard. ‘Mad,’ he said.

‘Mad,’ agreed Kaspar and rode on.

The Goromadny Prospekt was a long street, running through the city for almost half a mile, an industrious place where all manner of business was conducted. Stallholders yelled at passers-by as footpads sprinted from their pursuing victims and fur clad citizens travelled back and forth. Most of the men sported shaven heads with some form of elaborate topknot and long, drooping moustache, while the women wore simple woollen dresses with richly embroidered shawls and furred colbacks.

Eventually the street widened into a tavern-lined boulevard, thronged with carousing men who sang martial songs and waved long axes. As Kaspar and his entourage passed, the songs swelled to new heights, the axes brandished threateningly towards the knights. The boulevard continued to widen until it opened into the granite-flagged centre of the city, Geroyev Square. Hulking iron statues of long-dead tzars edged its perimeter, and forming the square were ornate buildings of red stone with high peaked roofs crowned with onion domed towers and narrow windows.

But as spectacular as the buildings around the edge of the square were, they were but pale shadows of the mighty structure that dominated the far side, the palace of the Tzarina, the Ice Queen Katarin the Great. The mighty fortress rose in tier upon tier of white stone towers and colourfully festooned battlements that reached their pinnacle as a great golden dome. Its beauty was breathtaking, like a vast ice sculpture rising from the ground, and Kaspar felt a new respect for the Kislevites. Surely a people that could build such beauty could not all be savages?

Dragging his attention back down to earth, he guided his horse towards the temple of Ulric, a massive edifice of white stone adorned with statues of fierce wolves that flanked the black wooden doors. Knots of bearded, black robed priests stared at them with quizzical glances from its steps.

In the grassed centre of the square a wide corral had been set up with scores of ponies being walked in circles before a baying crowd of prospective buyers. These were plains ponies, sturdy beasts that thrived in the harsh climate of Kislev, but were slower on the gallop than the grain fed horses of the Empire. Even at this distance Kaspar could see that many were sway-backed. He gave none more than six months of useful life.

A narrow street ran along the side of the wolf god’s temple, the buildings to either side shrouding it in darkness.

Kaspar waited until his carriage and wagons caught up to him before heading down the deserted looking street. It led into a wide courtyard with a bronze fountain at its centre, a patina of green covering its every surface. A dirty brown liquid gurgled from a small angel’s cup, filling the fountain’s bowl.

Behind the aged fountain and a rusted iron fence was the embassy of the Empire.

Having read Ambassador Teugenheim’s letters on the journey from Nuln, Kaspar had expected the embassy to appear somewhat run down, but nothing had prepared him for the state of neglect and air of abandonment he saw before him now. The building’s windows were boarded up with lengths of timber, the stonework cracked and broken, and illegible Kislevite graffiti was daubed across the doors. Were it not for the two guards lounging on halberds, Kaspar would have thought the building deserted.

‘Sigmar’s hammer!’ swore Bremen, appalled at the embassy’s appearance. Kaspar could feel his fury mounting towards Andreas Teugenheim, the man he was to replace. To have allowed an outpost of the Emperor to fall into such a state of disrepair was unforgivable. He rode through the sagging, open gate and as he approached the building, he saw the guards finally register his presence. Kaspar took no small amount of satisfaction from the look of alarm on their faces as they saw the Knights Panther and the Imperial banner fluttering behind him.

Had he not been so angry, he would have laughed at their pathetic attempts to straighten their threadbare uniforms and come to attention. They probably wouldn’t yet realise who he was, but must know that anyone distinguished enough to merit an Imperial banner and sixteen Knights Panther for an entourage was clearly a man not to be trifled with.

He halted before the door and nodded towards Kurt Bremen who dismounted and approached the fearful guards. The knight’s face was set in a granite-hard expression as he cast his critical eye over the two men.

‘You should be ashamed of yourselves,’ he began. ‘Look at the state of your weapons and armour. I should put you on a charge right now!’

Bremen snatched one of the halberds and tested its nicked and dull edge with his thumb. Blunt.

He held the weapon in front of the guard and shook his head.

‘If I were to try and enter this building, how would you stop me?’ he bellowed. ‘With this? You couldn’t cut your way through an Altdorf fog with this edge! And you, look at the rust on that breastplate!’

Bremen spun the halberd and jabbed the butt of the weapon hard against the man’s chest. The breastplate was rusted through and cracked like an eggshell.

‘You men are a disgrace to the Empire! I shall be having words with your commanding officer. I am relieving you of duty as of this moment.’

The guards withered under his verbal assault, eyes cast down. Bremen turned to his knights and said, ‘Werner, Ostwald, guard the door. No one enters until I say so.’

Kaspar dismounted and stood beside Bremen. He jabbed a finger at one of the guards and said, ‘You. Take me to Ambassador Teugenheim immediately!’

The man nodded hurriedly and opened the embassy door. As he scurried through, Kaspar turned to Kurt Bremen and said, ‘You and Valdhaas come with me. Leave the rest of the men here with the wagons. We have work to do.’

Bremen relayed the orders to his knights and followed Kaspar and the guard inside.

III

The interior positively reeked of abandonment, the embassy’s air of neglect and emptiness even stronger now they were inside. The timber-panelled walls were bare of hangings and the floorboards were discoloured where carpeting had obviously been ripped up. The guard reluctantly ascended a wide staircase that led to the next storey with Kaspar, Bremen and Valdhaas following behind. The man was sweating profusely. Kaspar noted, his every movement furtive and nervous. Like the ground floor, the second level of the embassy had been stripped of furnishings and decoration. They walked along a wide corridor, footsteps loud on the bare boards until finally arriving at an ornately carved door.

The guard pointed at the door and stammered, ‘This is the ambassador’s study. But he… well, he has a guest. I’m sure he’d rather not be disturbed.’

‘Then this really isn’t his day,’ snapped Kaspar, twisting the handle and pushing the door open. He entered a room as plushly furnished as the rest of the building was empty. One wall was dominated by a huge oaken desk and drinks cabinet while on another, a log fire blazed in a marble fireplace before two expansive leather chairs. Seated in the chairs were two men, one of whom was obviously a Kislevite, with a drooping moustache and swarthy complexion. He was enjoying a snifter of brandy and a cigar and regarded Kaspar and the knights with only mild interest. The second man, whip-thin and dressed in a red and blue doublet sprang from his seat, his face a mask of forced bluster.

‘Who in the name of Sigmar are you?’ he demanded in a reed-thin voice. ‘What the devil are you doing in my private chambers? Get out, damn your eyes, or I shall call for my guards!’

‘Go ahead, Teugenheim,’ said Kaspar calmly, ‘for all the good it will do you. I doubt one in ten of them has a weapon that wouldn’t shatter on the armour of these knights here.’

Bremen stepped forward, resting his hand on his sword hilt. Ambassador Teugenheim blanched at the sight of the two fully armoured knights and the pelts over their shoulders. He stole a glance at the seated man and licked his lips.

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m glad you asked,’ said Kaspar, holding out the same wax sealed scroll he had earlier shown to the gatekeeper. ‘My name is Kaspar von Velten and this will explain everything.’

Teugenheim took the scroll and broke open the seal, quickly scanning the contents of the document. He shook his head as he read, his lips moving soundlessly.

‘I can go home?’ he wheezed slowly, sinking into the leather seat.

‘Yes. You’ve been recalled to Altdorf and should leave as soon as your effects can be gathered together. There are dark times coming, Andreas, and I don’t think you’re up to facing them.’

‘No,’ agreed Teugenheim, sadly. ‘But I tried, I really did…’

Kaspar noticed that Teugenheim kept throwing mournful glances towards the seated figure and turned his attention to the large man, asking, ‘Sir, would you be so good as to give me the pleasure of your name?’

The man rose from the chair and Kaspar suddenly realised how huge he was. The man was a bear, broad shouldered and slab muscled. His gut was running to flab, but his physical presence was undeniable. Bremen moved closer to Kaspar and stared threateningly at the man, who grinned indulgently at the knight.

‘Certainly. I am Vassily Chekatilo, a personal friend of ambassador.’

‘I am the ambassador now and I have never heard of you, Chekatilo. So unless you have some business with me, then I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.’

‘You talk big for a little man,’ rumbled Chekatilo. ‘Especially when you have shiny soldiers with you.’

‘And you are a fat man who doesn’t understand simple requests.’

‘Now you are insulting me,’ laughed Chekatilo.

‘Yes,’ said Kaspar, ‘I am. Do you have a problem with that?’

Chekatilo grinned and leaned in closer, ‘I am not man who forgets insults, von Velten. I can be good friend to those who remember that. It would be foolish of you to make enemy of me.’

‘Are you threatening me in my own embassy?’

‘Not at all... ambassador,’ smiled Chekatilo, draining the last of his brandy and taking a huge draw on his cigar. He blew the smoke into Bremen’s face and laughed as the knight spluttered in the blue cloud. He dropped the cigar butt and crushed it into the carpet with his boot.

Kaspar stepped closer to Chekatilo and hissed, ‘Get out of my embassy. Now!’

‘As you wish,’ said Chekatilo. ‘But I warn you, I am powerful man in Kislev. You do well not to forget that.’

Chekatilo pushed past Kurt Bremen towards the door and sketched a mocking salute to him before departing with a derisory laugh. Kaspar fought down his anger and turned to Valdhaas, pointing at Teugenheim.

‘Escort Ambassador Teugenheim to his chambers and have your squires assist him in packing his effects. He will remain here until we can arrange his transport back to Altdorf.’

The knight saluted and indicated that Teugenheim should follow him.

Teugenheim rose from his chair and said, ‘I don’t envy you this posting, von Velten. This place is a haven for beggars and thieves, and there are so many excesses and disorders that after sunset nobody dares venture abroad without sufficient company.’

Kaspar nodded and said, ‘It is time for you to go, Andreas.’

Teugenheim smiled weakly, ‘As the lord Sigmar wills it,’ and followed the Knight Panther from the room.

Kaspar slumped down in one of the chairs and rubbed his forehead with both hands. Bremen stood beside the fireplace and removed his helm, tucking it in the crook of his arm.

‘Now what, ambassador?’

‘We get this place back on its feet and make it a post worthy of the Empire. War is coming and we must be ready for it.’

‘Not an easy task.’

‘No,’ agreed Kaspar, ‘but that’s why they sent me here.’

IV

Night was falling as Kaspar put aside his quill and carefully reread the words he had just written. Judging the tone to be erring on the correct side of caution he dusted sand over the ink before folding the letter carefully and sealing it with a blob of red wax. He pressed a stamp with the imprint of a twin-tailed comet into the soft wax and set the letter to one side.

He pushed back the chair, rising stiffly from behind the desk and walking to the window to stare down into the street below. Tomorrow one of the Knights Panther would deliver his missive to the Winter Palace, requesting an audience with the Ice Queen and the opportunity to present himself with a formal introduction. He just hoped that whatever damage Teugenheim had done in his time as ambassador would not prejudice the Tzarina against him.

His exact knowledge of what had gone on in Kislev was limited, though, given the state of the embassy and its emptied coffers, it seemed clear that Chekatilo had been extorting Teugenheim or otherwise blackmailing him. Andreas Teugenheim should never have been appointed to Kislev, it was a war posting and the man had neither the temperament nor the strength for such a position.

With armies on the move throughout the Old World, men of courage and steel were needed to fight the coming battles, and the powers that be in the court of Altdorf had decided that Teugenheim had neither. The first blow of any real invasion of the Empire would have to come through Kislev and thousands of his countrymen would soon be marching north towards this desolate, wind-blown country. Men who understood war would be needed to ensure that they were able to fight alongside the Kislevites and Kaspar knew his years of service in the armies of Karl-Franz made him an ideal candidate for this posting. Or at least he hoped he did. The art of war he could understand, but the subtleties and etiquette of courtly life were a mystery to him.

Years before, Kaspar’s wife, Madeline, had made sure he was a regular visitor to the royal court at Nuln. She understood better than he the value of the Countess-Elector Emmanuelle von Liebewitz’s patronage and, despite his protestations, dragged him to every one of her legendary masked balls and parties. His tales of battle and life on the campaign trail always thrilled the effete courtiers and made him a popular, if reluctant, guest at the palace.

After Madeline’s death he’d withdrawn from court society, spending more and more time alone in a house that suddenly seemed much bigger and emptier than before. Invites to the palace continued to arrive at his door, but Kaspar attended only those functions he absolutely had to.

But his reputation had spread further than he knew, and when the summons to the countess’s palace had come, and the courtiers from Altdorf had offered him this posting, he knew he could not refuse it.

Kaspar had left for Kislev within the week.

He sighed and drew the heavy curtains across the window, moving towards the crackling fire in the hearth.

The tremendous crash of the door slamming open startled him from his melancholic reverie and he spun, reaching for his sword. A hulking figure with an enormous grey beard filled the doorframe, carrying a bottle of clear liquid in one hand. He stepped into the room and placed the bottle on the table next to the leather chairs.

‘By Tor!’ he rumbled, ‘I am told that we have new ambassador here, but no one tells me he is so ugly!’

‘Pavel!’ laughed Kaspar, as the man strode towards him. The giant pulled him into a crushing bear hug and laughed heartily.

Kaspar slapped his old friend’s back and felt immense relief wash through him. Pavel Korovic, a fellow campaigner from his days in the army, released him from the embrace and cast his gaze over Kaspar. A savage warrior, Pavel had been a great friend to Kaspar during the northern wars and had saved his life more times than he could remember.

‘Perhaps you look less ugly when I am drunk, yes?’

‘You’re already drunk, Pavel.’

‘Not true,’ protested the giant. ‘I only drink two bottles today!’

‘But you’ll drink more won’t you?’ pointed out Kaspar.

‘So? When I rode into battle I had drunk many bottles before we fight!’

‘I remember,’ said Kaspar, picking up the bottle. ‘Did your lancers ever fight sober?’

‘Fight sober! Don’t be foolish, man!’ roared Pavel, snatching the bottle back from Kaspar. ‘No Dolgan ever went into battle sober! Now we drink kvas together, like old times!’

He yanked the cork free with his teeth, spitting it into the fire, and took a mighty swig of its contents. He passed the bottle to Kaspar.

‘It is good to see you again, old friend!’

Kaspar took a more restrained swig and handed the bottle back, coughing.

‘Ha!’ laughed Pavel. ‘You go soft now you not soldier! You cannot drink like old Pavel, eh?’

Kaspar nodded between coughs. ‘Perhaps, but at least I’ll never be as fat as old Pavel. No horse would take your weight now.’

Pavel patted his round belly and nodded sagely. ‘That I give you. But Pavel does not mind. Now Pavel carries the horse instead. But enough! We will go now and drink. You and I have much catching up to do.’

‘Very well,’ said Kaspar, knowing that he would be in for a night of serious drinking. ‘It’s not as though there’s much I can do here tonight. And anyway, what in Sigmar’s name are you doing here? I thought you were going home to the Yemovia stanista to breed horses.’

‘Pah! My people, they say I am lichnostyob, a lout, and do not want me back! Pavel comes to the city and his uncle Drostya gets him job in the embassy as reward for his years of loyal service in army. They call me the Kislevite liaison to Imperial ambassador. Sounds impressive, yes?’

‘Oh yes, very impressive. What does it actually mean?’

Pavel sneered. ‘With that spineless fool Teugenheim, it means I can drink most of the day and get to fall asleep in office rather than smelly tent on steppe. Come! We go and drink at my house. You will be guest until you are rid of Teugenheim!’

Kaspar could see that his old comrade in arms would not take no for an answer. He smiled; perhaps it would be good to catch up with Pavel and relive the old days. Besides, until Teugenheim was gone he had no wish to stay in the embassy and did not relish the prospect of staying in a tavern. He put his arm across Pavel’s shoulder.

‘Let’s go then, old friend. I hope you have more of that kvas at home.’

‘Have no fear of that,’ Pavel assured him.

V

Kaspar sipped his kvas as Pavel threw back another glass of the powerful spirit. The lancer’s fondness for kvas was legendary and it appeared that the years had not lessened his capacity for the drink. Kaspar could feel the effects of the alcohol already and had been nursing the glass in his hand for the past hour. Two bottles had been emptied and his companion was now roaringly drunk. They sat before the fireplace in Pavel’s kitchen, barely five hundred yards from the embassy, the wagons and carriage safely tethered within the courtyard of the townhouse. Stefan had declined Pavel’s offer of lodgings, preferring to stay at the embassy where he could begin assessing what needed to be done to make it more presentable. With the exception of Valdhaas, who stood guard outside, the Knights Panther had taken quarters at the embassy. Kaspar did not envy the slovenly soldiers billeted there the wrath of Kurt Bremen.

Pavel grinned as he poured another drink and belched. Despite all outward appearances, Kaspar knew that Pavel was a shrewd man indeed. The limited correspondence they had traded in the last few years had indicated that a number of highly lucrative contracts to provide mounts for the Kislevite army had made Pavel Korovic a very wealthy man.

‘So, who is this Chekatilo?’ asked Kaspar.

Pavel hiccupped and scowled at Kaspar. ‘Very bad man,’ he said finally. ‘Is nekulturny, no honour. Is killer and thief, run everything illegal in Kislev. Has many fingers in many things. All must pay his “taxes” or suffer. Fires, beatings. Killed his own brother they say.’

‘So what was he doing with Teugenheim then? Were the two of them in league together?’

‘With Chekatilo, nothing surprise me. Teugenheim was probably selling off embassy to him to pay off debts. Perhaps ambassador has expensive taste in whores,’ suggested Pavel. ‘Who knows, maybe Kislev get lucky and the Butcherman will take Chekatilo?’

Kaspar’s interest was suddenly piqued. He’d heard the name already. ‘Butcherman? Who is he anyway? I had some mad priest raving about him earlier.’

‘Another bad one. A madman,’ said Pavel darkly. He lit a pipe with a taper from the fire and passed it to Kaspar. ‘No one know who the Butcherman is or even if he is man at all. He kills men, women and children then vanishes into shadows. He cuts out victim’s heart and eats their flesh. Some say he is an altered, that bodies have flesh melted from bone. He kill many and Chekist cannot catch him. A bad one indeed. People are afraid.’

Kaspar nodded, remembering a similar spate of killings in Altdorf some years ago, the so-called ‘Beast’ murders. But that murderer had eventually been caught and killed by the watchman Kleindeinst.

‘How many people have been killed?’

Pavel shrugged. ‘Hard to say. Dozens probably, maybe more. But people die all the time in Kislev. Who can say if all are the work of the Butcherman? You should forget about him. He is crazy and will be caught and hanged soon.’

Kaspar drained his glass and slid it across the table towards Pavel. He stood and stretched, saying, ‘I don’t doubt you’re right. Anyway, I’m exhausted and the days ahead are sure to be busy. I have to meet the rest of the embassy staff tomorrow and I would prefer to do that without a hangover. I think I’ll call it a night.’

‘You do not want to stay up till dawn and sing songs of war! You are soft now, Kaspar von Velten!’ laughed Pavel, gulping down his kvas.

‘Maybe, Pavel, but we’re not the young men we were,’ said Kaspar.

‘Speak for yourself, Empire man. Pavel will drink the rest of bottle and sleep beside the fire.’

‘Goodnight Pavel,’ said Kaspar.

CHAPTER TWO

I

Kaspar shook his head in exasperation at the sight before him. Thirty soldiers dressed in the blue and red livery of Altdorf stumbled, staggered and lurched towards him, their breath ragged and uneven.

Despite the chill air, their faces were streaked with sweat, red and burning as they completed their fifth circuit of the walls of Kislev. The Knights Panther had finished almost a full hour earlier and stood to attention beside Kaspar and Pavel’s horses, barely having even broken a sweat.

‘Not an impressive sight,’ commented Pavel needlessly.

‘No,’ agreed Kaspar, his voice low and threatening. ‘These soldiers wouldn’t last half a day in the ranks. One skirmish and they would be food for the crows.’

Pavel nodded and took a huge draw on an evil-smelling cheroot, blowing a filthy blue cloud of smoke skyward. ‘Not like before, eh?’

Kaspar allowed himself a tight smile. ‘No, Pavel, not like before. The men we fought alongside were ten feet tall and could smite an army with one blow of a halberd! These sorry specimens would have a hard job lifting a halberd, let alone swinging one.’

‘Aye,’ laughed Pavel, taking a swig from a leather canteen. ‘Often I wonder what became of those men. Do you see anyone from the old days?’

‘I exchanged a few letters with Tannhaus for a time, but I heard later that he got himself killed when he joined a mercenary company that set off for Araby.’

Pavel took another drink. ‘That is shame. I liked Tannhaus, he could fight like a devil and knew how to take drink.’

‘The damn fool was in his fifties,’ snapped Kaspar. ‘He should have bloody well known better than to go off glory hunting at his age. War is a young man’s game, Pavel. It’s not for the likes of us now.’

‘By Olric, you are in a sour mood today, Empire man!’ muttered Pavel, offering the canteen to Kaspar. ‘Here, take a drink.’

Without taking his eyes from the exhausted soldiers, Kaspar took the proffered canteen and took a swig. He’d swallowed a huge mouthful before he realised the canteen contained kvas and was bent almost double by the powerful spirit. His gullet burned with liquid fire and he coughed, his eyes watering.

‘Damn it, Pavel!’ swore Kaspar. ‘What the hell are you doing? It’s not even midday!’

‘So? In Kislev is good to drink early. It make rest of day not seem so bad.’

Scowling, Kaspar wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and said, ‘As a favour to me, try and keep sober, yes?’

Pavel shrugged and took back the canteen, but said nothing as the embassy soldiers finally reached them, collapsing in utter exhaustion. Kaspar could feel his already foul mood darkening even more. That his predecessor could have allowed his soldiery to lapse into such a disgraceful state was unbelievable and, given the choice, Kaspar would have sent every one of them back to the Empire.

However, under the circumstances that was not an option. Kurt Bremen had assured him that he could whip them into shape and had spent the week since they had arrived in Kislev doing just that. Resplendent in his shining plate armour, panther pelt draped impressively around his shoulders, Bremen strode through the panting guards, his face like thunder.

‘Call yourselves soldiers!’ he roared. ‘I’ve known serving wenches with more stamina than you lot! An hour in the battleline and you’d be begging the enemy to gut you!’

At least the soldiers had the decency to look ashamed, noted Kaspar. Perhaps there were still some amongst them who might yet be worthy of the Emperor’s uniform.

‘My knights completed this jaunt in full armour and not one of them has a face as red as a Tilean’s arse.’

‘We ain’t done any training in nigh on a year,’ complained a reedy voice from amongst the soldiers.

‘That’s plain to see,’ snapped Bremen. ‘Well, that laziness stops now. I’m in charge of you and I swear that you men are going to hate me more than you’ve ever hated anyone before.’

‘We’re already there,’ came another voice.

Bremen smiled, but there was nothing reassuring in his expression.

‘Good,’ he snarled. ‘Then we’ve begun. I will break you down to nothing, cause you pain until you plead with me to kill you just to put you out of your misery. But I won’t. I’ll break you and then build you back up into the best damn soldiers under the Emperor’s command.’

Kaspar turned his attention to the city walls as he heard laughter drift down from the ramparts looking out over the hillside. Groups of Kislevite soldiers lounged on the wall head and clustered around smoking braziers, laughing and pointing at the Empire soldiers’ exertions.

Kaspar was damned if he would allow this mockery to go unanswered. He raked his spurs back, startling the gelding, and cantered forward past Bremen then pointed towards the walled city of Kislev.

He unwound the scarf from around his neck, his breath feathering in the air as he spoke. ‘You see those men on the walls?’ Kaspar began. He did not raise his voice, but every one of the soldiers recognised the years of authority it contained. He swept his hand in a gesture along the length of the wall saying, ‘These Kislevites are warriors! They live in a land constantly threatened by creatures from your worst nightmares. They must be ready at a moment’s notice to fight and win. And right now they are laughing at you!’

Kaspar wheeled his horse, walking the beast through the mob of soldiers. ‘And they are right to laugh, because you are all pathetic, worthless pieces of shit that I wouldn’t piss on even if you were on fire! You are the worst soldiers that I have ever commanded and as Sigmar is my witness, I will not be shown up by your shortcomings.’

Angry scowls met Kaspar’s words, but the new ambassador was not finished yet. ‘You are all this and more,’ continued Kaspar, ‘but that is what you are now. What you will become is something much more than that. You are soldiers of the Emperor Karl-Franz and you are my men, and together we will become something to be proud of. Ambassador Teugenheim allowed you to forget that you are soldiers of the Emperor. But he is gone now, and I am in charge. I will not let you forget!’

Kaspar turned his horse again as a coarse, heavily accented voice sneered, ‘Things was just fine ’till you showed your face.’

He looked down to see a man whose muscle had long since been replaced by flab and whose features bore all the hallmarks of a lifetime’s abuse of alcohol. His bearded face was twisted in an ugly mask of contempt, hands planted confrontationally on his hips. Kaspar knew his type; he’d met countless variations of the same personality in his life as a soldier.

He swung smoothly from the saddle and landed lightly on the muddy ground, handing the reins to Kurt Bremen and walking coolly towards the man. More of the soldiers rose to their feet, some placing themselves close to the bearded man, others deliberately keeping their distance. Kaspar recognised the criticality of this moment; he could win or lose the men here in an instant. Kurt Bremen also realised this and moved to stand behind Kaspar, but the ambassador waved him back. He must do this alone.

‘What’s your name?’ hissed Kaspar, taking the measure of the man before him.

He was a big man, but out of shape, with great, meaty hands that Kaspar knew would hit like anvils.

‘Marius Loeb,’ replied the man, breath sour with last night’s rotgut.

Loeb folded his arms across his chest. Kaspar could see that the man was confident in the support of the soldiers at his back. They had it easy here at the embassy and he’d be damned if this old man was going to get in the way of that.

‘Loeb….’ mused Kaspar, casting his gaze across the rest of the soldiers. ‘Yes, Herr Korovic has told me of you.’

Pavel smiled and raised his canteen in a friendly gesture as his name was mentioned and Kaspar continued, ‘You are a drunk, a thief, a bully and a lazy, good-for-nothing piece of horse dung. You will be gone from here by morning.’

Loeb’s face flushed and his eyes blazed in self-righteous fury. Kaspar saw the punch coming before it was halfway. He stepped forward and pistoned his fist into Loeb’s face, a short, hard, economical boxer’s punch, and Loeb’s nose cracked audibly under the impact. The big man reeled, blood pouring from the centre of his face, but to Kaspar’s astonishment, he remained on his feet. Snarling, he launched himself forwards, his massive rock-like fists swinging. Kaspar sidestepped and launched a jab into Loeb’s gut before delivering a thunderous right cross to his jaw.

The big man staggered, but kept coming, aiming a wild punch at Kaspar’s head. The blow was poorly aimed, but caught Kaspar across the temple. Lights exploded before his eyes. He rolled with the punch and moved in close, thundering a vicious series of jabs to Loeb’s mashed features. Blood and teeth flew from the man’s jaw as soldiers gathered round the combatants, shouting encouragement to both fighters equally.

Kaspar was tiring and he knew that this was getting out of hand. He had hoped to put Loeb down with one well-aimed punch, but the man just wouldn’t give up. Under other circumstances that would have been an admirable trait in a soldier, but now…

Loeb’s eye was swollen and blood poured down his face. He was practically blind now, but that didn’t seem to impair him much. He roared and aimed a kick between Kaspar’s legs. The ambassador stepped aside and hammered his elbow into the man’s cheek, feeling bone break under the impact. Loeb’s eyes glazed over and he collapsed to his knees before falling face first to the mud.

Kaspar stepped back and massaged his knuckles where the skin had broken.

He stared directly at the few men who had stood behind Loeb and said, ‘Get that fat piece of filth back to the embassy and stitch his wounds. He goes back to the Empire tomorrow.’

As his compatriots bent to pick up the unconscious Loeb, a young soldier stepped forward and said, ‘Sir?’

Kaspar placed his hands behind his back and marched to stand before the young man who had spoken. He was perhaps twenty, slim with an unruly shock of dark hair and finely chiselled features.

‘Who are you then? Another troublemaker?’ asked Kaspar.

‘Leopold Dietz, sir, from Talabecland,’ replied the young soldier, staring at a point over Kaspar’s shoulder. ‘And no, sir, I ain’t no troublemaker. I just wanted you to know that we ain’t all like Loeb. There’s some good lads here, and we can be better than we’s been so far. A lot better.’

‘Well, Leopold Dietz, I hope you’re correct. It would be a shame if I had to crack some more skulls today.’

‘That it would, sir,’ agreed Leopold with a wry grin. ‘Not all of us have got glass jaws like big Loeb.’

Kaspar laughed and said, ‘I’m glad to hear that, son. Because I need tough soldiers doing their best.’

He turned away from Dietz and pointed towards the soldiers struggling towards the gates with the giant Loeb.

‘That man…’ began Kaspar, ‘was a cancer. He infected every man here with the desire to do less than he was capable of, less than his duty demanded. That cancer has been cut out and from now on, things will be done in a proper manner, as befits a garrison of the Emperor’s soldiers. I am a hard man, but a fair one and if you prove to me that you are worthy of this post, then I shall see you rewarded for that.’

Kaspar turned back to the scowling Kurt Bremen. He could see the Knight Panther did not approve of his methods, but having come from the ranks himself, he knew there was only one way to earn the respect of the common soldiers. He took the gelding’s reins from Bremen and, hooking his foot into the stirrup, swung onto its back.

Pavel leaned in close and whispered, ‘Your first punch was good, but you go too easy on him I think. You forget all Pavel teach you about gutter fighting? Eyes and groin. Go for his, protect your own.’

Kaspar smiled weakly, clenching and unclenching his fist. Already he could feel his fingers stiffening and knew that the skin would soon be colourfully bruised.

‘Big man almost had you with punch to head,’ commented Pavel. ‘Perhaps you are right. Perhaps you are too old for soldiering.’

‘Aye, he was a tough one alright,’ acknowledged Kaspar. He pulled on his black leather riding gloves as Pavel tapped him on the shoulder and nodded in the direction of the city gates, where a trio of horsemen silently observed them.

Kaspar shielded his eyes from the sun and watched the small group as it wound its way down the road towards them. Two bronze-armoured knights with bearskin cloaks flanked a thin, ascetic featured man shrouded in a blue cape with a leather colback planted firmly on his head.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Trouble,’ grunted Pavel.

Kaspar glanced at Pavel’s normally laconic features, apprehensive at the look of hostility that flickered briefly across his face. He indicated to Bremen that he should continue with the soldiers’ training and kicked back his spurs.

‘Come on then, Pavel. Let’s meet trouble head on.’

‘The Gospodars have saying, my friend: “Do not seek out trouble. It find you quick enough”,’ muttered the giant Kislevite as he pulled his overburdened horse after Kaspar’s.

The thin man reined in his mount, a bay gelding from the Empire rather than a smaller Kislevite plains pony, which immediately marked him out as a man of means. Unusually for a Kislevite, he was clean-shaven and his lips curled in distaste as his eyes flickered to the unconscious Loeb, telling Kaspar that he had seen the brawl.

The man gave a perfunctory bow to Kaspar, ignoring Pavel, and inquired, ‘Do I have the pleasure of addressing Ambassador von Velten?’

Kaspar nodded. ‘You do indeed, though you have me at a disadvantage. You are…?’

The man seemed to swell within his voluminous cloak before he answered. He drew himself up and said, ‘I am Pjotr Ivanovich Losov, chief advisor to Tzarina Katarin the Great, and I bid you welcome to her land.’

‘Thank you, Herr Losov. Now how may I be of service to you?’

Losov produced a vellum envelope, wax-sealed with the crest of the Ice Queen herself, from his cloak and handed it to Kaspar.

‘I bring you this,’ he said, ‘and hope you will be available to attend.’

Kaspar took the envelope and broke the seal, withdrawing an invitation, sumptuously scripted and printed on heavy paper with the royal cipher as a watermark. In gold embossed lettering, Kaspar read that he was cordially invited to be presented to the Tzarina at the Winter Palace tonight.

Kaspar replaced the invitation in the envelope and said, ‘Please convey my thanks to the Tzarina and inform her that we will, of course, be honoured to attend.’

Pjotr Losov’s brow furrowed in confusion. ‘We?’ he began, but before he could say any more, Kaspar continued: ‘Excellent. My Kislevite liaison and captain of the guards will no doubt enjoy the evening also. I have heard many fabulous tales regarding the splendour of the Winter Palace.’

Losov frowned, but said nothing, realising that to deny Kaspar guests would be a breach of protocol.

‘Of course,’ replied Losov, casting a look of distaste towards Pavel. ‘The Tzarina will be most pleased to receive them also I’m sure.’

Kaspar smiled at the barely concealed sarcasm and said, ‘My thanks for your delivery of this invitation, Herr Losov. I look forward to meeting you again this evening.’

‘As do I,’ replied Losov, doffing his colback to Kaspar and hauling on his horse’s reins. He and his escort rode back up the hillside, joining a caravan of wagons and fur-wrapped peasants as they made their way to the city.

Kaspar watched Losov’s retreating back and turned to Pavel.

‘I take it you two know each other then?’

‘We have dealings in past, yes,’ confirmed Pavel neutrally, but said no more. Kaspar filed that nugget away for later and raised his eyes to the low autumn sun. It was still bright, but he knew it was already several hours past noon.

‘A reception tonight! She might have given us bit more bloody notice. I’ve been waiting all week for an audience with her!’

Pavel shrugged, his usual enthusiasm returning as Losov vanished from sight. ‘It is the Tzarina’s way, my friend. Come, we must return to the embassy and prepare. Pavel must make sure you are presentable for Ice Queen.’

Kaspar plucked at his plain grey shirt and cloak and mud-stained boots, realising what a backward peasant he must have looked to the Tzarina’s envoy.

‘I take it that it would have been bad form to decline this?’ asked Kaspar, waving the envelope.

The very idea seemed to horrify Pavel and he nodded vigorously.

‘Very bad, yes, very bad. You cannot decline. Etiquette demand that the Ice Queen’s invitations take precedence over all other previous engagements. Even duty to the dead must be set aside, for mourning does not release a guest from appearing at a court ceremony.’

‘And the prospect of free food and drink has nothing to do with your steadfast desire that we attend this damned thing...’

‘Not at all!’ laughed Pavel. ‘Pavel just wishes to make sure you do not offend Ice Queen in some way. Were it not already silver, Pavel could turn your hair white with tale of last man who displeased the Tzarina. All I say is that it was as well he and his wife already had children!’

‘Then let us go, my friend,’ grinned Kaspar, walking his horse towards the city gates. ‘I have no wish to suffer a similar fate.’

Kaspar glanced back at the soldiers, who had begun jogging around the city walls once more. He noted that Leopold Dietz led from the front, keeping pace with Kurt Bremen and exhorting the others to push harder. He hoped that the young soldier’s optimistic words were not so much hot air. He would need soldiers to be proud of in the coming months if his ambassadorship was to be taken seriously.

II

Kaspar pulled on his long coat and admired himself in the full-length mirror. He wore black britches tucked into grey leather boots and an embroidered white cotton shirt with a severely cut, black frock-coat. Every inch a servant of the Empire, he considered. Despite his fifty-four years, he had tried to keep himself in shape and his body was wiry and lean.

Since the departure of Teugenheim earlier in the week, Kaspar had taken the previous ambassador’s quarters as his own, refurnishing it at his own expense. He was not living in the manner to which he was accustomed, but it would do for now.

Returning from the cold outside the city walls two hours ago, he had bathed using a Kislevite herbal soap that had a strange, but not unpleasant aroma, and then shaved, twice nicking the edge of his chin with the knife. It was typical, thought Kaspar, that he could shave most mornings while half asleep and not cut himself, but the moment an important function came up, it was as though he hacked at his skin with a rusty axe blade.

A knock came at his door and before he could respond, Stefan entered the room, a colourful bundle of fabric draped over his good arm. His left arm ended at the wrist, a beastman’s axe blade having taken his hand a decade ago.

‘What do you think?’ asked Kaspar.

‘Oh no, no, no!’ retorted Stefan, casting a scornful gaze over Kaspar’s apparel and rolling his eyes. ‘You’re not going to a funeral, you damn fool, you’re going to be presented to a queen.’

‘What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?’ asked Kaspar, raising his arms and turning to face the mirror again.

‘You look like a schoolmaster,’ commented Stefan, dropping the bundle of fabric on a chair by the window.

‘This is Kislev,’ continued Stefan. ‘They’re a dour enough race without everyone going about in black all the time. Royal events are an excuse for the Kislevites to dress up like peacocks and strut around in all their finery.’

As if to underscore Stefan’s words, the door slammed open and Pavel strode into Kaspar’s chambers, grinning like a fool and dressed in a riotous mix of silks and velvet. He wore a cobalt-blue doublet and hose, stretched across his wobbling belly, patterned with silver stitching and sequined with glittering stones sewn into the lining. An ermine trimmed cape hung to his knees and his boots were fashioned from a ridiculously impractical white velvet. To complete the ensemble, Pavel had waxed his long grey moustache into extravagant spirals that reached below his chin.

Kaspar’s jaw dropped at the sight of his comrade as Stefan nodded in approval.

‘That’s more like it,’ he commented. ‘That’s how you dress for court in Kislev.’

‘Please tell me you’re joking,’ growled Kaspar. ‘He looks like a court jester!’

Pavel’s face fell and he folded his arms. ‘Better a jester than a priest of Morr, Empire man! I will be most handsome man tonight. Women will weep when they see Pavel!’

‘Of that I have no doubt,’ commented Kaspar dryly.

Pavel smiled, missing Kaspar’s ironic tone, and the next twenty minutes were spent in heated debate as Stefan and Pavel attempted to persuade the ambassador to consider a more colourful selection of clothes. Eventually, a compromise was reached and Kaspar changed into an emerald green pair of britches and, as a concession to his Kislevite hosts, a short scarlet dolman, slashed with gold and trimmed with a border of sable. The short cape hung loosely about his shoulders and felt completely impractical to Kaspar. Too small to provide any warmth and just awkward enough to get in the way while walking, it was typical of the Kislevite aristocracy to design a garment with no practical purpose whatsoever.

At last Kaspar and Pavel descended to the main doors of the embassy to find Kurt Bremen waiting for them, his armour shining like polished silver. The knight was without his sword belt and Kaspar could see how much it chafed him to be unarmed. Bremen looked up at the sound of their approach and Kaspar saw him visibly fight to restrain a smirk at their outlandish attire.

‘Not a word,’ warned Kaspar as Bremen opened the thick wooden door.

The sky was dark as they emerged into the cold of a Kislev night. It was still early evening, but night had fallen with its customary northern swiftness and the chill cut through Kaspar.

‘By Sigmar, these clothes don’t hold a scrap of heat,’ he growled. He stamped his feet on the cobbles to work in some warmth and set off down the steps to the embassy gates where a lacquered and open-topped carriage awaited them. On the tiny coach-box sat a huge driver with a long beard, wrapped in a vast greatcoat and wearing a square red velvet cap. He clambered down and opened the door and saluted as Kaspar, Pavel and Bremen climbed aboard. He returned to his coach-box and cracked his whip, expertly guiding the carriage back towards Geroyev Square.

III

The driver managed the trotting horses with a practiced ease, the thread-thin reins held tightly in his hands, and Kaspar had to admit that the carriage was a fine method of travel indeed. The harness, made from a few strips of leather, was scarcely visible, and gave a wonderful look of elegance to the steed, which seemed to run without any restraint beneath the great arched piece of wood above the carriage’s collar. Had she still lived, Madeline would have loved to travel like this and for a wistful moment he pictured her riding alongside him through this night.

The carriage streaked across the centre of the square, and their speed slowed as the ground became steeper. The carriage carried them smoothly along the Urskoy Prospekt, the great triumphal road, that took its name from the monastery at its beginning, the Reliquary of St. Alexei Urskoy. This massive stone edifice was a sanctuary consecrated to the heroes of Kislev, and the burial-place of the Ice Queen’s father, the great Tzar, Radii Bokha himself.

All the way along, the thoroughfare presented a most animated scene. On either side of the road, more humble vehicles plied for hire, drawn by thick-set cart-ponies and driven by rough-coated peasants who had flocked from the surrounding steppe to escape the advancing armies of the northmen.

The ground grew less steep and before them, upon the crest of the Gora Geroyev, stood the palace of the Ice Queen. Kaspar had seen the palace several times in the past week and had been overwhelmed by its majesty, but at night, lit from below by vast, Cathayan lanterns, its beauty was spellbinding.

‘It’s magnificent,’ whispered Kaspar as the driver expertly guided the carriage through the wrought iron gates of the palace grounds, passing between rows of armoured knights with helms crafted in the shape of snarling bears. The sheer scale of the royal palace became even more apparent as they neared, its defences every bit as formidable as the city walls themselves.

Scores of sleds and carriages filed along before them, discharging their fur-wrapped charges at the black wooden gates of the palace and swiftly moving on to make room for others following them. Knights on white horses stood motionless at the entrance, watching as the empty carriages slipped back through the gates and formed a line on the square, their coachmen gathering about huge fires burning in braziers provided for the occasion.

Their driver once again climbed down from his coach-box and silently opened the carriage door. Kaspar and Bremen stepped down, lost in admiration at the palace architect’s skill. Pavel pressed a few brass kopecks into the driver’s outstretched palm and stood alongside the two men from the Empire, following their gaze around the intricately carved columns and pediment that formed the entrance to the Winter Palace.

‘You both look like you have never seen palace before. Let us get inside before we are mistaken for ignorant peasants,’ said Pavel, striding towards the palace.

Kaspar and Bremen hurriedly caught up with Pavel, the wooden doors swinging open as they approached, and they stepped through into the palace of the Tzarina of Kislev. No sooner were they inside the marble-floored vestibule than the doors closed behind them.

The vast hall was packed with people, brightly chatting young women and bawdily laughing men.

The great majority of the men were soldiers, young moustachioed officers of every corps, haggard faces grim testimony to the fierce battles being fought in the northern oblast against the hordes of Kurgan warriors. They wore bright surcoats and fur-edged dolmans, their armour obviously hastily repaired, and all carried feathered helmets surmounted by a silver bear with spread paws. Scattered here and there were the commanders of regiments of lancers and horse archers with red breastplates and green tunics, as well as hand gunners wrapped in their long tunics and bristling with silver cartridge cases.

Passing quietly to and fro among the crowd were the Tzarina’s liveried pages and maids of honour, dressed in long, ice-blue coats, divesting the guests of their heavy pelisses and carrying silver trays laden with flutes of sparkling Bretonnian wine. Pavel reached out and stopped one of the tray carrying servants, procuring a trio of glasses.

Kaspar accepted one from Pavel and sipped the wine, enjoying the refreshing crispness of the beverage.

‘It’s like something from a child’s fairy tale,’ said Kaspar in wonderment.

‘This?’ scoffed Pavel, with a grin. ‘This nothing. Wait until you see Gallery of Heroes, my friend.’

Kaspar smiled, and despite his reservations, found himself caught up in the ebullient mood that appeared to infuse the assembled guests of the Tzarina as they made their way slowly towards a gracefully curved marble staircase.

The procession ascended the long, flower garlanded staircase, lace trains sweeping past the porphyry pillars, gems and diamonds gleaming in the light of gently spinning lanterns wreathed in silk. Many-coloured uniforms passed through the vestibule, the click of sabres and spurs loud on the floor. Slowly the guests ascended between ranks of Kislevite knights chosen from among the most handsome men of the Palace Guard, grand-looking giants, who stood expressionless in their burnished armour of bronze.

A mammoth painting of the Tzarina’s father on the back of a monstrous white-furred bear dominated the wall at the head of the stairs and beneath it, Kaspar saw the elegantly dressed form of Pjotr Losov. He wore a long, crimson robe, decorated with swirls of yellow leather and hung with silver tassels.

The Tzarina’s advisor spotted him and raised his hand in welcome.

‘Be wary of that one,’ warned Pavel as they reached the top of the stairs. ‘He is snake and not to be trusted.’

Before Kaspar could question Pavel further, Losov swept towards them and shook Kaspar’s hand. He smiled and said, ‘Welcome to the Winter Palace, Ambassador von Velten. It is good to see you once again.’

‘I am honoured to be invited, Herr Losov. The palace is magnificent, I have never seen its like before. Truly it is a marvel.’

Losov nodded, accepting the compliment gracefully as Kaspar said, ‘Allow me to present my companions to you, sir. This is my captain of the guard, Kurt Bremen of the Knights Panther.’

‘Honoured, sir knight,’ answered Losov as Bremen bowed curtly and clicked his heels together.

‘And this,’ said Kaspar, indicating Pavel, ‘is the Kislevite liaison to the Imperial ambassador, Pavel Korovic. Pavel and I served in the Emperor’s armies many years ago. He is an old and trusted friend.’

Barely even bothering to mask his contempt, Losov briefly inclined his head in Pavel’s direction before saying, ‘If you would permit me, I should like to escort you to the Gallery of Heroes. There are many people here tonight I believe it would be to your advantage to meet, Herr Ambassador, should you wish your post here to be a profitable one.’

‘So long as the Emperor’s views are expressed at court, then I consider that my time here will have been spent profitably,’ replied Kaspar.

‘My meaning entirely, Herr Ambassador.’

The white doors below the massive portrait were held open by more of the blue-liveried servants as Losov escorted them through into the Gallery of Heroes, and once again, Kaspar found himself lost for words at the opulence of the scene before him.

IV

The Gallery of Heroes was one segment of a great three-part hall composed of what Kaspar at first took to be glass, before realising that it was in fact solid ice. This first part of the gallery made up the southern wing of the palace and glittered dazzlingly with pinpoints of reflected light from the hundreds of silver candelabras. On one side, it opened through a single, great arch and arcade of ice columns, into a massive semi-circular room filled with tables and set for dining.

On the opposite side, a series of small arches led from the gallery into another, equally impressive space where clapping observers watched a group of bare chested warriors sparring with long, curved swords.

Kaspar halted to watch, grotesquely fascinated by the warriors, each with blades sheathed through cauterised flaps of skin on their heavily muscled chests and stomachs. Long topknots dangled from their shaven skulls and azure sashes were bound around their narrow waists. A handsome warrior with a long waxed moustache and oiled topknot bounced lightly on the balls of his feet in the centre of a circle of warriors. He had a lithe, dancer’s physique together with the narrow hips and powerful shoulders of a swordsman. He carried two exquisite blades and wore loose fitting scarlet cavalry troos. His body was freshly oiled and his sculpted muscles gleamed in the torchlight.

Four similarly attired warriors surrounded the man and bowed to him before raising their swords. Kaspar watched with a practiced eye as the lone man dropped to a fighting crouch, one blade pointed at his nearest opponent, the other curled above his head.

‘Who is that warrior?’ asked Kaspar as Pjotr Losov appeared at his side.

‘That,’ said Losov proudly, ‘is Sasha Fjodorovich Kajetan. He commands one of the Tzarina’s most glorious squadrons of the Gryphon Legion. His family have estates at a wondrously picturesque part of the Tobol and many say he will command the legion within the year.’

Kaspar nodded, suitably impressed as the four swordsmen closed on Kajetan.

‘This hardly seems fair.’

‘I know,’ agreed Losov, ‘but Kajetan is Droyaska, a blademaster. Were he to take on any more opponents it would appear as though he were showing off.’

Kaspar cast a puzzled glance at Losov before returning his attention to the fight. Kajetan’s cold features betrayed little apprehension at the thought of facing four armed opponents and Kaspar could not decide whether it was arrogance or courage he was seeing.

The fight began and it was over so quickly that Kaspar had trouble believing what he had just seen. As the first of Kajetan’s foes lunged towards him, he leapt and spun through the air to land between two of the swordsmen and slam the pommels of his swords against their foreheads. Even as they fell, he was in motion, swaying aside from the slash of another opponent’s blade and rolling beneath a high cut that Kaspar felt would surely decapitate him. He rolled to his knees and swept his leg out in a long slash that scythed another swordsman’s legs out from under him. He hammered his elbow into the fallen man’s neck before arching his back and bringing his swords together above his head to block a downward cut. He somersaulted backwards, delivering a thunderous kick to his last opponent’s jaw as he spun through the air before landing gracefully with his swords crossed before him.

Rapturous applause filled the hall and Kaspar found himself joining in, amazed at this warrior’s sublime skill. His opponents groggily picked themselves up as the applause swelled.

‘Where in the name of all the gods did that man learn to fight?’ he asked.

‘I’m given to understand that he took instruction from a warrior order far to the east,’ said Losov vaguely. ‘On one of the Cathayan islands, I believe.’

Kaspar nodded, still in awe at Kajetan’s dazzling display and allowed himself to be led from the contest of arms into the main gallery once more. Its great vaulted ceiling was filled with a vast mosaic depicting the coronation of Igor the Terrible and a great chandelier from the time of Tzar Alexis hung from its centre. Great columns formed from sepia-tinted ice, veined with subtle golden threads and capped with fluted, hand-carved capitals supported the ceiling. The walls were smooth and translucent and numerous rugs from Bretonnia, Estalia and Tilea were strewn across the cold floor.

Kaspar was amazed; he had visited the Imperial Palace in Altdorf many years ago, when receiving his general’s baton, but its splendour paled next to this opulence.

He could see that Bremen was similarly in awe of his surroundings as Pavel accosted another servant to replenish their empty glasses. Losov guided Kaspar into the hall, pointing out particularly impressive paintings and features of the room.

‘The Gallery of Heroes takes its name from the collection of paintings of the Kislevite Tzars that hang here. It is a living history of Kislev’s ancient rulers, with portraits of Tzar Alexis, Radii Bokha, Alexander, his children and, of course, the Khan Queens Miska and Anastasia.’

Kaspar nodded in time with Losov’s words, lost in the wonder of his surroundings.

Losov continued his narration. ‘The furniture is mostly Bretonnian, and includes a number of pieces by Eugene Fosse, which were brought to the Winter Palace from Bordeleaux in 2071.’

As Losov began talking about the portraits of the Khan Queens, Kaspar found his gaze and attention straying to a raven-haired woman dressed in an ivory gown who moved behind the throng of guests. Whilst giving the appearance of listening to Losov, he attempted to get a good look at her face, but she remained frustratingly out of plain sight. As he caught a glimpse of her mischievous smile, a faint memory fluttered, but remained elusive.

Kaspar realised Losov had moved on and stepped after him, cannoning into another guest and spilling his wine down the man’s furred dolman.

Horrified, Kaspar said, ‘My apologies, sir. My fault entirely...’

A string of unintelligible Kislevite assaulted him and though his knowledge of the language was rudimentary, he could tell he was being horribly insulted. The man was broad and powerful, his thick furs and armour obviously expensive. He wore a peaked helmet edged with gold that marked him as a boyarin, one of the Kislevite nobility, and his ruddy, bearded features spoke of a hard life spent outdoors. The collision had almost knocked him from his feet and Kaspar could see the boyarin was stinkingly drunk, his bleary eyes ugly and hostile.

‘You Empire man?’ asked the man in thickly accented Reikspiel.

‘I am, yes,’ answered Kaspar. ‘I am–’

‘Bastard Empire,’ slurred the man. ‘Kept safe with Kislev blood. You and your land be dead but for us. Kislev’s sons die to keep your lands safe and only when Empire burns do you come to fight.’

Kaspar fought to hold his temper as the drunken boyarin jabbed his thick finger into Kaspar’s chest. ‘What here for, huh? Want Kislev warriors fight for you? Ha! Treat us like dogs then expect us to die for you?’

‘That’s not–’

‘Shit on you, Empire man. I hope your lands burn in hell,’ growled the boyarin and Kaspar bunched his fists, feeling his temper fray even more. He grabbed the boyarin’s tunic and pulled his face down to his own.

‘Now listen to me, you piece of–’

‘Come now, Alexei Kovovich,’ said Pjotr Losov smoothly, appearing once more at Kaspar’s side and separating the two men. ‘There’s no need for all this. Ambassador von Velten is to be presented to the Tzarina tonight and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to bruise him before then, would you?’

Alexei Kovovich focussed on Losov before spitting on the floor in front of Kaspar and turning away to stagger towards the martial displays in the previous hall. Heads throughout the hall had turned to watch the altercation and Kaspar felt his skin redden.

‘My apologies, ambassador,’ said Losov. ‘Boyarin Kovovich can be a little uncouth when in his cups, though he is a great warrior if he can stay sober. A common factor amongst some of our aristocracy, I regret to say.’

‘That’s alright,’ said Kaspar, ashamed at his loss of temper. What sort of impression would that make on the Kislevites? The tension slowly drained from him as Losov ushered him into a line of guests extending from a set of beaten gold double doors at the far end of the hall. It seemed he was not the only person to be presented to the Tzarina tonight, and judging by his position in the line, not even the most noteworthy.

An ornate clock above the doors began chiming and at the ninth chime, the double doors of the inner apartments were flung open. Immediately the silence of death fell upon the gallery. A voice announced: ‘The Tzarina, Katarin the Great, Queen of all Kislev!’ and Kaspar had his first glimpse of the infamous Ice Queen herself.

Tall and majestic, with the beauty of a sculpted work of art, the Tzarina wore a long, pale blue dress with a lace train that glittered with icy shards. Her hair was the colour of a clear winter sky, confined beneath a crescent of azure velvet and set with pearls, from which hung a long white veil.

The Ice Queen was followed by her many retainers and close family. As she greeted those closest to her apartment doors, Kaspar watched the effect her entry had on the faces of those within the hall. Every countenance had assumed the same expression, by turns serious and smiling, as though everyone present was afraid to catch the eye of their queen, while at the same time afraid not to try.

The Tzarina had almost reached him and he was reminded of the Ice Queen’s status as a powerful sorceress whose powers were said to come from the icy land of Kislev itself as the air around him grew colder. He shivered as his gaze was drawn to the Tzarina’s waist where a long bladed sword was buckled. Waves of icy chill radiated from the weapon and Kaspar knew he looked upon the mighty war-blade, Fearfrost. The magical sword had been forged in ancient times by the Khan Queen Miska and wielded by her when she had conquered whole swathes of the Empire.

Not only was it highly unusual for the Tzarina to be armed on an occasion such as this, but Kaspar understood that it was a calculated insult for her to wear a weapon that had killed so many Empire nobles in the past.

At last the Tzarina reached Kaspar and he could feel the chill of her nearness deep in his bones as he bowed deeply towards her. The Ice Queen offered her hand, palm down, to Kaspar and he lifted it to his mouth, kissing it lightly. His lips burned with cold, as though he had kissed a block of ice. He straightened and met the Ice Queen’s gaze as she pulled the lace veil back from her face. Her skin was pale and translucent, a mocking smile playing about her lips. Her eyes were like chips of cold sapphire.

‘Ambassador von Velten. We are pleased you could attend. I hope we did not drag you from some pressing business to attend our little soiree.’

‘Not at all, your majesty. I wouldn’t have missed this for all the gold in the Grey Mountains.’

‘Quite,’ agreed the Tzarina, her milky eyes drifting to the other guests in the line.

‘My compliments on your palace, truly it is magnificent.’

‘Thank you for your kind words, Ambassador von Velten. I am, of course, always pleased to welcome our cousin in the Empire’s representatives to Kislev and hope that you enjoy more success than your predecessor.’

‘I endeavour only to serve, your majesty.’

‘What a wonderful philosophy you have, ambassador,’ said the Tzarina playfully before moving on to the next guest and Kaspar felt the chill air depart with her.

V

As the opening chords of a marching tune were struck to polite applause, the Tzarina, along with her current favourite, led the way into the centre of the long hall. The fine rugs from foreign lands had been removed and the polished floor could now serve for dancing. Other couples followed the Ice Queen and Kaspar caught sight of Pavel offering his hand to a grey haired woman old enough to be his grandmother, smiling indulgently as he strutted along like a Tzar himself. He laughed as he saw a young girl of no more than sixteen summers grab Kurt Bremen’s hand and all but drag him onto the floor. The crowd clapped in time to the Tzarina’s steps and Kaspar joined in, the smile freezing on his face as a delicate hand slipped into his own and pulled him away from the dance floor.

He opened his mouth to protest, then shut it just as quickly as he recognised the dark haired woman he had been searching for earlier. Kaspar guessed she was perhaps in her mid thirties, and when she smiled at him her savage beauty struck him like a comet. Jet-black hair spilled from a crescent of jewelled silk and gathered around her shoulders like iridescent oil, framing her full lips and jade green eyes perfectly. Her ivory dress flirted with decency, with a golden pendant hanging in her ample cleavage.

Crafted in the shape of a crown encircling a heart, Kaspar’s eyes were drawn to it as he recognised the heraldry on the coach that had passed him when he arrived through the gates of Kislev. The elusive memory he had grasped for earlier swam to the surface of his mind as he remembered her face passing by him on the Goromadny Prospekt. He felt her eyes on him and blushed as he realised what she must think he was looking at.

She chuckled playfully and as they passed a series of arches in the eastern wall of the gallery, she inclined her head in the direction of an adjacent gallery.

Kaspar nodded, quickly checking to see that Bremen and Pavel were still occupied behind him and followed the woman into the next hall.

Smaller than the Gallery of Heroes, it was nonetheless still impressive. To Kaspar’s left, wide stairs led down to sets of double doors that opened into a shimmering garden of white trees and ice sculptures. A massive painting depicting the final battle of the Great War against Chaos at the gates of Kislev dominated the hall and, hand in hand, Kaspar and the woman made their way to stand before it.

She stared at the picture as though enraptured, still holding Kaspar’s hand, and he followed her gaze. The picture was a work of grand scale and he was impressed by its passion, if not its bias.

In the painting, the city of Kislev was in flames, her noble warriors painted with bold brush strokes and noble countenance. The dwarfs and warriors of the Empire who had also fought to defeat the forces of Chaos were painted with smaller, less confident strokes, their faces in shadow. He had to hunt before he could even find Magnus the Pious, the Empire hero who had led the combined armies to ultimate victory. As far as revisionist pieces of artwork went, it was a classic.

He threw a quick glance over his shoulder into the Gallery of Heroes as the dancing began in earnest. He recognised the first measures of the mazurka, a passionate military dance of Kislev and smiled as he watched a young warrior of the Gryphon Legion beat time to the music with the sole of his spurred boot. The man swept a redheaded woman into his arms and threw himself forward, leaping across the room with long strides. He spun the laughing girl and fell on his knees before her. Kaspar’s heart surged as he remembered dancing the mazurka with Madeline in Nuln. It was a dance from the old days of gallantry, full of suggestions of passionate and romantic love.

He felt the woman’s eyes on him and turned from the energetic dancing, lifting her hand and planting a kiss upon its warmth.

‘You are gallant indeed, Kaspar von Velten.’

‘One must always be gallant in the presence of beauty, milady,’ replied Kaspar, not relinquishing his hold on her hand.

‘If only all men thought as you do,’ smiled the woman. ‘But unfortunately that is not always the case.’

‘Sadly true, milady,’ agreed Kaspar. He wanted to ask her name or how she knew his, but felt that to do so would break the spell that held them here in this moment.

‘I am Anastasia Vilkova,’ she said, solving his dilemma.

‘The Khan Queen,’ whispered Kaspar, inwardly cursing himself for his clumsiness. He was supposed to be a diplomat and here he was tongue tied, blurting the first thing that came into his head.

Anastasia laughed, saying, ‘Yes, I was named after her, but to put your mind at ease, I have no intention of mounting your head on a chariot spike.’

‘Well that’s a relief,’ replied Kaspar, a measure of his composure returning.

‘Though I am told I have a wicked streak, I think that would be a bit much.’

‘At best it would be impolitic given my position here in Kislev,’ agreed Kaspar.

Anastasia’s eyes darted over his shoulder and Kaspar turned to see the man who had given the stunning display of swordsmanship approach with the confident stride of a natural warrior. He wore an embroidered green tunic with a scarlet sash tied crosswise across his chest and his twin blades sheathed in hide scabbards across his back. His topknot was freshly oiled and hung around his neck like glistening snake. His violet eyes were the cold steel of a warrior about to go into battle, and Kaspar had to resist the urge to take a backward step.

The man bowed curtly to Anastasia, ignoring Kaspar and said something in the thick tongue of Kislev. Anastasia’s features wrinkled in annoyance and she shook her head impatiently, casting a wary glance in Kaspar’s direction.

‘Kaspar, have you been introduced to Sasha Kajetan?’ she asked.

‘Not yet,’ replied Kaspar, turning to address Kajetan and offering his hand. ‘A pleasure, sir.’

‘What are you doing?’ said Kajetan, ignoring Kaspar’s outstretched hand. ‘Why are you talking to Anastasia like this?’

‘I’m sorry?’ said Kaspar, nonplussed. ‘I don’t follow…’

‘Well I do!’ snapped the swordsman. ‘Don’t think I don’t understand what you were trying to do here. Anastasia is mine, not yours.’

‘Oh, come now,’ protested Anastasia, ‘that’s hardly the kind of conversation we should be having here.’

‘Are you trying to tell me he wasn’t kissing your hand a second ago?’

‘As a gentleman should,’ said Anastasia haughtily, though Kaspar caught a hint of excitement in her tone and realised she was enjoying having two men argue over her.

He could see colour building on Kajetan’s neck and, knowing that he was not a man to antagonise, said, ‘I assure you, Herr Kajetan, that my intentions were strictly honourable. Had I known you and Madam Vilkova were a couple, I would have never have acted in such an inappropriate manner.’

Anastasia giggled. ‘Sasha and I are old friends. We aren’t a couple.’

Kaspar saw a flicker of emotion pass across Kajetan’s cold features and wondered if he knew that. He heard the music from the main hall peter out and his irritation with Kajetan grew as the swordsman impulsively grabbed Anastasia’s arm.

Kaspar said, ‘I was privileged to witness your fighting skills earlier, Herr Kajetan. I have never seen their like.’

Kajetan nodded, momentarily distracted, and said, ‘Thank you.’

‘Truly inspiring,’ said Kaspar, picking a fragment of lint from his collar. ‘Though it is never quite the same when there is no risk involved and the fighters are comrades.’

Kajetan flushed red and snarled, ‘I would be only too happy to try my blade against yours and show you what happens when the fighters are not comrades.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Anastasia hurriedly, stepping between the two men. Out of sight from Kajetan, she pulled a folded piece of paper from her décolletage and crushed it into Kaspar’s hand. As a collective gasp of dismay sounded from the main hall she leaned forward and whispered, ‘These are directions to my home. Call upon me,’ before linking her arm with Kajetan’s and leading him away.

Kaspar nodded and slipped the paper into the breast pocket of his shirt as he caught sight of Kurt Bremen approaching, his face grim.

‘What’s happened?’ said Kaspar, looking past the knight and seeing anxious faces in the main hall.

‘Wolfenburg has fallen,’ said Bremen.

CHAPTER THREE

I

He watched the boyarin lean against the side of the alley to let the evening’s kvas pour from his body in a stream of hot urine. He watched him sway in his drunkenness and, once he had finished, watched him button up his britches with some difficulty. The boyarin staggered off down the street, and his thoughts turned sour as he pictured her face once again. He ghosted down the alley, naked as the beasts of the dark forests, and following the zigzagging boyarin as he made his way through the foggy darkness of the city towards his lodgings.

As he watched the boyarin’s swaying back, he felt the familiar bitterness swell within his breast. Not content with beating his mother half to death with a poker, his father had turned the long length of black iron on the boy, thrashing obedience and devotion into him in equal measure.

He whimpered as he remembered the pain and humiliation. The powerlessness that had gripped him until the moment he had been elevated to his trueself. In their ignorance, the people of this city called him the Butcherman and he laughed at the inappropriateness of the name.

The boyarin spun and stumbled against a wall, hearing the laughter behind him. He froze in his hunt, blending into the brickwork of the wall and holding his breath lest the drunken fool somehow see him.

He knew it was unlikely. The little light cast by the moon just made the fog glow a spectral white and the torches of the palace were but a distant memory. The boyarin’s lurching footsteps were louder now and he could easily make out the bulky, fur-clad figure moving unsteadily through the soupy fog. A familiar word sprang to mind.

Hunted.

He pictured her face again, bruised, bloody and with one eye swollen shut with weeping contusions. His teeth ground together with a rage and love that had not dimmed with time, and his fists bunched as he thought of ending the life of the pathetic specimen of humanity that stumbled and belched ahead of him. He promised himself that this time he would enjoy what he must do. His otherself would wail and cry, but what was he but the otherself’s secret face? That weakness was tucked away in a corner of his mind and would only be released when this task was completed.

He pictured what would happen next, seeing once more the green field where he had taken the first, faltering steps on the road that had led here, the first emergence of his trueself. The blood, the axe and the taste of warm meat ripped from the bones of a living body.

The boyarin even wore the same form of peaked helmet, the same colour of dolman as…

He took a deep breath to calm himself, feeling the familiar excitement of the hunt build in his breast at the thought of pleasing her again. He slid the long, thin bladed knife his mother had given him from his flesh and padded soundlessly forward.

There. He saw the boyarin steady himself on the corner of a sagging redbrick building, the moonlight illuminating his hateful features. Alexei Kovovich’s face was flushed with alcohol and self-righteous indignation. He could well imagine the satisfaction the boyarin had gotten insulting the new ambassador from the Empire. He bit his lip hard to stop from screaming as his anger built to incandescent levels. He leapt forward and grabbed the boyarin’s arm, spinning him around and hammering the knife into his ugly face.

The man roared in pain and dropped to his knees, his head lolling back on slack muscles. Moonlight glinted on the descending blade as he stabbed again and again. The boyarin’s throat geysered and he was upon him, the knife forgotten as he tore flesh with his bare hands. Spittle flew and blood steamed in the cold night.

He swallowed lumps of gristly meat as he bit them from the man’s face.

He vomited onto the boyarin’s chest as he stabbed his thumbs through the jelly of the man’s eyes.

He bled and his otherself wept as he took yet another life.

He could not enjoy this.

He hated this almost as much as he hated himself.

II

Kaspar signed his name on a promissory note and handed it to Stefan with a growl of displeasure. It felt foolish to be spending money, his own money no less, on refurnishing the embassy and returning it to its former grandeur when hordes of northmen were massing to smash it to ruins. But standards had to be maintained and it would take time for more money to arrive from Altdorf.

Outside, he could hear tradesmen cleaning the walls of the embassy of the Kislevite graffiti while glaziers tore off the wooden boards covering the windows and replaced them with new-blown glass.

‘We’re getting there, slowly but surely,’ said Stefan. ‘Soon this embassy will be an outpost for the Emperor to be proud of.’

‘But it will take time, Stefan. Time I’m not sure we have any more.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Stefan, casting a scathing look at Pavel, who lounged in the corner of the room, smoking a long and evil-smelling pipe. ‘But we can’t have these Kislevites thinking they’re better than us, can we?’

Pavel winked and said, ‘Already know,’ before blowing a smoke ring.

‘That’s not it,’ said Kaspar. ‘I’d just be happier knowing that I wasn’t wasting my money.’

‘Is there any further news from the Empire?’ asked Stefan. The question was asked lightly, but Kaspar could sense the anxiety behind it.

The news that Wolfenburg had fallen had been a harsh blow to morale, made all the more so by the lack of any further reliable information.

Riders and messengers arrived at sporadic intervals, each bearing wildly contradictory rumours from the Empire.

‘Nothing reliable, no,’ said Kaspar, shaking his head.

‘I was speaking to some arquebusiers from Wissenland yesterday,’ said Stefan. ‘Their regiment was destroyed at Zhedevka and they’ve been living hand-to-mouth since then. They said that they’d heard the Kurgans had pressed south and are camped outside Talabheim.’

‘Aye,’ said Kaspar, arching his eyebrows. ‘And I’ve heard that the Kurgans are in the west of the Empire, somewhere around Middenheim.’

‘You don’t believe that?’

Kaspar shook his head. ‘Of course not, no army can cover those kinds of distances in so short a time. You should know better than that. For what it’s worth, I think that with winter coming, the Kurgans will turn northwards and march back to Kislev.’

‘Rumour has it a pulk gathers in fringes of oblast. Many soldiers,’ said Pavel.

‘Is that true?’ asked Kaspar.

‘Damned if I know. Tzarina not exactly share information with me.’

‘Oh, well thank you for your insight,’ said Stefan.

Kaspar ignored their bickering and leafed through a stack of papers on his desk and steepled his fingers before him. He was tired and the stress of the last few days was beginning to take its toll. Requests for an audience with the Tzarina to discuss military cooperation were being met by a stone wall, though Pjotr Losov had assured Kaspar that the Ice Queen would grant him an audience as soon as she became available.

‘These Wissenland arquebusiers you were talking to?’ he asked. ‘Where are they billeted?’

‘They’re not. They’re camped just outside the city walls. Them and a few hundred other souls who’ve come down from the fighting in the north.’

‘You said they’re living hand-to-mouth?’

‘Yes.’

‘Find out who commands them and send him to me. And find out what happened to the food that was sent to Kislev to feed these men. I want to know why they’ve not been supplied properly.’

Stefan nodded and departed as Pavel stood and walked to the window.

‘Is bad times coming,’ he said sagely.

‘Aye,’ agreed Kaspar, rubbing his eyes.

‘Pavel not seen city like this before now.’

‘Like what?’

‘You think Kislev so busy all the time?’ asked Pavel. ‘No, most live on the steppe, in stanistas. You know, small villages? Most only come to city when winter breaks to sell furs, meat and such things.’

‘But now they’re coming south because of the tribesmen?’

‘Aye. Has happened before, but not like this. Kyazak bandits, Kul and Tahmak mostly, ride the steppe to kill and rob, but people are safe behind timber walls. Take more than Kyazak riders to make this many people come to city. Kislev people are people of land, not stone. They not leave steppe unless forced to.’

Kaspar nodded at Pavel’s words. The city had felt busy, but no busier than most other cities he had visited. It had not occurred to him that this would not be the normal state of affairs.

‘If there is another army gathering in the north, it’s only going to get worse before it gets better, Pavel.’

‘Is of no matter. Kislev been through hard times before. Survived them, will survive this.’

‘You seem very sure.’

‘How long you know me?’ asked Pavel suddenly.

‘I don’t know exactly, twenty-five years maybe?’

‘And in that time, you ever know me to give up fight?’

‘Never,’ answered Kaspar instantly.

‘That Kislev way. Land all that matters. We may die, but Kislev live on. So long as land go on, so do we. The northmen may kill us all, but they will die eventually or someone else kill them. Is of no matter to land. Kislev is land and land is Kislev.’

Pavel’s line of thought was too abstract for Kaspar to follow and he simply nodded, unsure of what exactly his friend meant. He was spared from thinking of a reply by Pavel asking, ‘You expecting visitors?’

‘No,’ replied Kaspar, rising from his chair as the sound of angry voices came from the street beyond.

III

He woke and couldn’t open his mouth.

He clawed at his lips, peeling the dead skin mask from his face and hurling it to the floor in revulsion. He sat bolt upright, eyes wide in terror. The low sun shone through the dirty skylight and dimly illuminated the timber-framed attic, motes of dust drifting through stray beams. Flies buzzed around him, settling on his lips and arms where patches of sticky blood clung to him.

Something dangled on a hook behind him, but he didn’t want to look at it yet.

He pushed himself to his feet, a terrible sickness building in his stomach as the smell of the attic assailed him: putrefaction and the reek of embalming fluids stolen from the Chekist building.

In waking here, he knew that the thing inside him that called itself the trueself had killed again, though he did not remember who it had eaten. All that was certain was that another life had been torn screaming from this world and that it – he – was responsible. He dropped to his knees and retched, tasting raw meat in his mouth. The guilt was overpowering and he wept like a newborn for over an hour, rocking in a foetal position until he remembered the locket, clicking it open and staring at her picture within. A coiled lock of auburn hair nestled inside and he pressed it to his face, inhaling the rich aroma of her scent.

He gulped deep breaths and the shaking subsided to a level where he was able to push himself to his knees. The lingering echoes of the trueself drained from his mind as he picked up a red sash, like that worn by Kislevite boyarin, and wiped his face, feeling his strength and identity returning as he cleaned himself.

Silently he padded to the attic hatch and listened for any noises from below. He was always careful to conceal the activities of the trueself from the others; they would not understand the pain he suffered being torn between his warring selves.

Satisfied that the tack store below was empty, he pulled open the hatch and climbed down to the cold wooden floor. He could sense that, save for the horses in their stalls below, the building was empty and made his way quickly to his billet in the adjacent building. Here, he located fresh clothes, a linen towel and a bar of scented soap, then headed back down into to the exercise yard.

He worked the hand pump, filling the horse trough before the stables with icy water and proceeded to wash his entire body with the soap. As each patch of blood washed from his skin, he repeated the Mantra of Tranquillity, feeling calmer, stronger and more purposeful with each repetition. The trueself was still there, of course, but he could feel it receding to the back of his mind with each breath. He didn’t know who it had killed, but knew that whoever it had been would have suffered a truly excruciating death. But he could not be held responsible, could he? When the dreams came and the trueself took hold, he had no power over it. Even as he thought of the trueself, a last fragment of its identity swam to the surface of his mind.

The trueself thought of the locket, feeling the otherself becoming physically aroused at the thought of her. Her touch, her skin, her scent and her lingering kisses.

Only for her could it do these things.

It thought of the eyeless head hanging on the hook in the attic and smiled.

The trueself felt sure she would have approved.

IV

‘What in the name of Sigmar is going on down there?’ said Kaspar as he watched scores of shouting people filling the courtyard before the embassy. Nearly a hundred people pressed against the iron fence, hurling guttural insults at the building and the Knights Panther who had wisely retreated behind the gates and shut them fast.

The crowd gathered around a wailing woman swathed from head to foot in a black pashmina, her wails piteous and heartfelt.

Kaspar turned from the window and grabbed his black cloak, wrapping it around himself before buckling his twin flintlocks on his right hip.

‘You sure that is wise?’ asked Pavel.

‘Well I’m damned if I’m going to face a mob without a weapon.’

Pavel shrugged and followed the ambassador out onto the hallway, where Kurt Bremen and Valdhaas were descending the stairs to the vestibule. Bremen stopped and turned to address the ambassador as he made his way from his chambers.

‘Ambassador, you should stay inside. We’ll handle this.’

‘No, Kurt. I’ll not have others fight my battles for me.’

‘Herr von Velten,’ explained Bremen patiently, ‘that is our job.’

Kaspar started to retort, then realised that Bremen was right. ‘Very well, come with me. But stay behind me.’

Bremen nodded, noticing the pistols holstered beneath Kaspar’s cloak.

‘Pavel,’ said Kaspar as he took the stairs two at a time. ‘The woman in black, what’s her story?’

‘I do not know. Dressed for mourning, but I not recognise her.’

‘Fine, so we know someone’s dead and for some reason they’re angry at me. Nobody’s killed anyone and not told me, have they?’

‘No, ambassador,’ said Pavel and Bremen together.

‘Very well, let’s see what’s going on then,’ said Kaspar and pushed open the door.

Screams and yells of abuse filled the air and the wailing woman slid down the railings of the iron gate, her arms outstretched in abject grief. She screamed and wept uncontrollably. Three young men, their faces alight with righteous fury shook the gates and roared at Kaspar.

‘What are they saying?’ said Kaspar, suddenly realising the depth of anger in the crowd.

Pavel pointed to the weeping woman. ‘They say her husband is dead.’

‘And what has that to do with me?’

‘They say you killed him.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Not sure. Hard to make sense of what they say,’ said Pavel, gingerly approaching the gate. Six Knights Panther held it against the press of bodies as he yelled into the crowd, waving his arms and pointing at the woman and Kaspar. After several minutes of confused shouting, he returned to Kaspar’s side, his face grim.

‘Is bad,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ snapped Kaspar. ‘I gathered that, but what’s happening?’

‘Woman is Natalja Kovovich and her husband is dead. Murdered they say.’

‘I’ve never even heard of her husband,’ said Kaspar, though the name was vaguely familiar, ‘let alone murdered him.’

‘The drunk,’ said Bremen suddenly. ‘At the reception, the boyarin you spilt your drink over. That’s who he was.’

‘Damn,’ swore Kaspar as the name fell into place. He could picture the drunken boyarin’s face now and remembered him saying that the Empire ought to burn in hell. He remembered his anger and that he would have put his fist through Kovovich’s face if not for the intervention of Losov.

Surely these people didn’t think that he could have killed the man?

This was madness, and he felt the situation slipping beyond control with every passing shout hurled in his direction. He drew one of his pistols and pulled back the flint.

‘Ambassador, I don’t think that is a very good idea,’ warned Bremen.

But it was already too late.

Kaspar strode to the gate. He raised his pistol above his head and, before Bremen or anyone else could stop him, fired the pistol into the air.

The crowd screamed as the pistol boomed and a cloud of powder smoke drifted from the muzzle.

‘Pavel!’ shouted Kaspar. ‘Translate for me.’

‘Ursun save us,’ muttered Pavel, but stood beside the ambassador.

‘Tell them that I am deeply sorry for Madam Kovovich’s loss, but that I had nothing to do with her husband’s death.’

Pavel shouted into the crowd, but they were in no mood for conciliation and drowned his words with cries for vengeance. The remaining Knights Panther raced from the embassy, their swords drawn and closely followed by fearful looking embassy guards with halberds held loosely before them.

Kaspar holstered his spent pistol and drew the second, but before he could fire it, Kurt Bremen grabbed his arm and said, ‘Please, Ambassador von Velten, don’t. It will only inflame this situation more.’

Kaspar said, ‘I’ll not be browbeaten by a mob, Kurt.’

‘I know, but do you really want to aggravate these people further? It will not take much more for this situation to turn murderous.’

Cold clarity settled on Kaspar as he realised the gravity of the situation. He was reacting as a man and not a leader. A hundred or more angry people were yelling for his blood, only kept at bay by a fence in serious need of repair.

Bremen was right, it was time to defuse this situation rather than inflame it.

He nodded. ‘Very well, Kurt, let’s see what we can do to calm these people down.’

Bremen sighed in relief, turning sharply as more pistols boomed and screams echoed from walls. A score of horsemen dressed in black with lacquered leather breastplates and long, bronze-tipped cudgels rode into the street. They fired flintlocks over the heads of the crowd and rode into its midst, their cudgels cracking skulls and breaking bones wherever they struck.

‘What the hell?’ said Kaspar before Pavel bundled him back towards the embassy. ‘Who are they?’

Pavel did not stop, but said, ‘Chekist! Like city watch, but much, much worse.’

Screams and cries rang out as the horsemen circled within the courtyard, bludgeoning those closest to them and dispersing the crowd without mercy. Within seconds, the mob had fled, leaving dozens of its members to bleed on the cobbles before the embassy. Stunned, Kaspar and the Knights Panther watched the horsemen circle the fountain at the centre of the courtyard, making sure that there was no further resistance.

Several horsemen rode off in the direction the bulk of the mob had fled while the others reined in before the embassy gates. The leader, a man wearing a fully enclosed helm of dark iron with a feathered crest, dismounted and approached the gates.

The Knights Panther glanced round at Kaspar and Bremen.

Kaspar nodded and the knights unbarred the gate, allowing the leader of the Chekist to enter. He marched towards the building and slung his cudgel from his belt before removing his helmet.

He wore his hair long, pulled back in a long scalp lock, and his moustache was clipped short on his upper lip. His eyes were coal-dark and expressionless, his bearing that of a warrior.

‘Ambassador von Velten?’ he asked in fluent Reikspiel, utterly devoid of accent.

‘Yes.’

‘My name is Pashenko. Vladimir Pashenko of the Chekist, and I am afraid I must ask you some questions.’

V

Stunned silence greeted Pashenko’s question.

‘Did you not understand the question, ambassador?’

‘I understood it well enough, Herr Pashenko, I’m just not sure how you can expect me to take it seriously.’

‘Because murder is a serious business, ambassador.’

‘I couldn’t agree more, but I find it hard to believe that you could think I had anything to do with Boyarin Kovovich’s death.’

‘Why?’ asked Pashenko.

‘Because I only met him once for less than a minute.’

‘How well did you know the boyarin?’ asked Pashenko.

‘I just told you,’ said Kaspar.

‘Had you heard of him before you assaulted him at the Winter Palace?’

‘I didn’t assault him, he–’

‘That’s not the information I have, ambassador. I have witnesses who inform me that you grabbed the boyarin and threatened him before the Tzarina’s advisor separated you.’

‘He insulted me,’ snapped Kaspar.

‘And that infuriated you.’

‘No. Well, it made me angry, yes, but not enough to kill him.’

‘So you admit you were angry?’

‘I never said I wasn’t. He told me that he hoped my nation burned in hell.’

‘I see,’ said Pashenko, writing in his notebook. ‘And when did you leave the Winter Palace?’

‘I’m not sure of the exact time, not long after we heard that Wolfenburg had fallen.’

‘I also have witnesses who tell me that Boyarin Kovovich left around the same time, giving you ample opportunity to follow him and butcher him.’

‘Butcher him? What are you talking about?’

‘The boyarin’s corpse was found the morning after the reception at the palace, though it took some days to identify him due to the fact that his head was missing and much of his clothing and flesh had been burned, as if by some form of acid.’

‘Is that supposed to shock me?’

‘Does it?’

‘Yes, but no more than you thinking that I did it. Sigmar’s hammer, don’t you already have a killer in Kislev who does this kind of thing? The Butcherman?’

‘We do indeed,’ nodded Pashenko. ‘Though it is not unknown for other wrongdoers to commit crimes in a similar manner to those of an existing criminal in an attempt to have them accrue the blame for their own violent actions. And let us not forget lunatics and the deranged who attempt to emulate someone they perceive as worthy of imitation.’

Kaspar was speechless. Surely this idiot couldn’t seriously believe that he had anything to do with the boyarin’s death?

But despite the ridiculousness of the accusation, Pashenko radiated an easy confidence that unsettled Kaspar.

‘When did you identify the boyarin’s body?’ asked Kurt Bremen.

‘What has that to do with anything?’ said Pashenko.

‘Perhaps nothing, but when?’ pressed the knight.

‘Just this morning. His head was left outside our building on the Urskoy Prospekt.’

‘Yet not long after that, an angry mob forms and makes its way here? It seems the people of Kislev are truly great detectives to have spoken to all the witnesses you claim to have, deduce the ambassador’s involvement and arrive here before you and your men.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ said Pashenko.

‘Come on, Herr Pashenko,’ said Kaspar. ‘Don’t play games with us. Someone gave you the information you have and told the grieving widow where to go, didn’t they?’

‘You are mistaken,’ replied Pashenko.

‘No, sir, it is you who is mistaken if you think I am some ignorant peasant you can browbeat with your pathetic attempt at intimidation,’ said Kaspar, rising from his seat and indicating the door. ‘Now if you will excuse me, I have urgent ambassadorial duties that require my attention. I’m sure you can see yourself out.’

Pashenko rose from his seat and bowed curtly towards the ambassador.

‘Your attitude has been noted, herr ambassador. Good day to you,’ said Pashenko.

The Chekist turned on his heel and left the room without another word, and as the door shut behind him, a collective sigh of relief followed him.

Kaspar rubbed a hand over his scalp and said, ‘Can you believe that? If it wasn’t so idiotic it would be funny.’

‘Nothing funny about Chekist,’ said Pavel darkly.

‘Oh, come on, Pavel,’ laughed Kaspar. ‘He didn’t have a shred of proof.’

‘You not understand, Chekist not need proof,’ snapped Pavel standing and jabbing his finger at Kaspar. ‘You not in Empire now, Kaspar. In Kislev, what Chekist say is law, is law. They disappear people. You understand? Throw people in gaol and they never seen again, never heard of again. Gone…’

‘Even an ambassador of a foreign power?’ scoffed Kaspar.

‘Even you,’ nodded Pavel.

Kaspar saw the seriousness of Pavel’s expression, finally understanding Pashenko’s easy confidence and realising that perhaps the Chekist’s threat wasn’t as empty as he’d believed.

CHAPTER FOUR

I

Sparks flew where the two heavy broadswords clashed, the ring of steel echoing across the courtyard. Kaspar rolled his wrists and stabbed with the point of his sword, but his opponent easily sidestepped the attack. A sword this heavy wasn’t meant for thrusting, it was designed to smash through armour by virtue of its sharp edge and sheer weight. He stepped back as his blade was swept aside and a slashing riposte passed within inches of his chest.

He was sweating profusely and his sword arm burned with fatigue. The wire-wound grip of the sword was slippery with moisture and he switched to a two-handed grip, the blade held straight out before him.

‘Had enough yet?’ asked his opponent.

‘No, are you feeling tired?’ he replied.

Bader Valdhaas smiled, holding his own heavy blade as though it weighed nothing at all. Kaspar wasn’t surprised, Valdhaas was a knight in his prime and thirty-three years Kaspar’s junior. He’d watched in admiration as the Knights Panther trained every day with their heavy swords and lances, maintaining the strength and stamina required to wield such cumbersome weapons with ease.

Kaspar couldn’t remember blades being this heavy when he had been a soldier, but then he wasn’t a young man any more and the strength and immortality of youth were a distant memory to him now. Valdhaas wore his plate armour, while Kaspar was armoured in an iron breastplate and pauldrons edged with twists of gold with a bronze eagle at its centre. To protect against any accidental injuries during this sparring session, he had also been furnished with a mail shirt normally worn beneath a full suit of armour.

The edges of the swords were dulled, but Kaspar knew that any impact from such heavy weapons would still hurt like a bastard. Knights and guards had gathered to watch their new master from the cloisters and balconies overlooking the courtyard and Kaspar began to question the wisdom of his decision to begin sparring again. He had no wish to be carried off on a pallet in front of his staff if he could avoid it.

‘Go easy on him, Valdhaas!’ called Pavel from an upper balcony. ‘Ambassador is old man now, he don’t see good!’

‘No, Pavel,’ shouted Kaspar. ‘It’s me who should go easy on him, this old dog still knows a few tricks.’

Valdhaas grinned and launched his attack, the blade sweeping low towards Kaspar’s legs. Impulsively, the ambassador stepped to meet the blow, bringing his blade down to block, intending to spin inside Valdhaas’s guard and deliver a scoring strike to the knight’s side.

But the expected impact never came and Kaspar had a horrified moment of seeing the knight’s sword slashing towards his face instead. His rash counterattack had brought him much closer than Valdhaas had expected and the knight’s sword was about to smash Kaspar’s skull to splinters.

As though handling a lightweight duelling sabre, Valdhaas pulled his stroke in time to avoid decapitating Kaspar, but could not prevent the blade from striking his shoulder. The impact tore the pauldron from his armour, spinning him round and sending him crashing to the stone flags of the courtyard. He heard a gasp from the spectators and felt a sticky wetness on his neck.

‘Ambassador!’ shouted Valdhaas, dropping his sword and rushing to Kaspar’s side.

‘I’m fine,’ said Kaspar, groggily reaching up to touch his neck.

He looked down and saw the torn padding and split links of his armour, blood leaking from a shallow cut just above his collarbone.

‘Ambassador, accept my apologies,’ blurted the knight. ‘I didn’t think you would risk coming in so close to attack.’

‘I know, and don’t worry. This was my fault, I need to remember I’m not the young man I was.’

‘I tried telling you that before you started, but you not listen to me,’ laughed Pavel.

‘But he’s a typical man, and had to nearly get his head caved in to learn that,’ added a similarly accented female voice from the cloister below Pavel.

Kaspar smiled and pushed himself to his feet as Valdhaas helped him off with his armour. He turned to face the speaker, a tall woman with auburn hair pulled in a severe bun and pinned behind her head. Her features were lined but handsome, and she wore a long green dress with a white apron and a linen pashmina decorated with colourful needlework along its length.

‘I know, Sofia, I know,’ said Kaspar, pulling his shirt over his head to allow her to examine the cut. She pushed his head to one side and used the edge of his shirt to wipe away the blood.

‘You’ll need stitches,’ she declared. ‘Sit over by the trough.’

The knights and guards drifted away, the excitement over for now, and returned to their duties. Kaspar slapped his palm on the knight’s armour and said, ‘Well, done, lad, you have a fine sword arm on you there. Strong and, thankfully, fast.’

‘Thank you, ambassador,’ bowed Valdhaas before withdrawing.

Kaspar sat on a stone bench at the edge of the trough and rested his back against the hand pump as Sofia wetted his ruined shirt in the water and cleaned the cut of blood.

‘You’re a damn fool. You know that, don’t you?’ she said.

‘Aye, it’s been said before.’

‘And, I have no doubt, will be said again soon enough,’ said Sofia.

Kaspar had been introduced to Sofia Valencik when Stefan had employed her as the ambassador’s personal physician. She had presented herself at the gates of the embassy three days ago with some impressive credentials and had begun her tenure by insisting that she be allowed to thoroughly examine Kaspar so that she might learn all about her new responsibility.

Between cursing Stefan for the wretch he was and fending off her attempts to remove his clothing for a full examination, Kaspar had insisted he didn’t need some Kislevite sawbones poking around his body. But Stefan and Sofia were insistent and eventually he had been forced to relent.

Sofia Valencik could often be blunt, was frequently disrespectful of his position and often affected an aloof superiority, though Kaspar had discovered that she had an irreverent sense of humour. Her manner was honest and if you didn’t like it, then you could go to hell.

Kaspar liked her immensely and the two had hit it off almost immediately.

‘A man of your age playing with swords… I don’t know,’ she said shaking her head and pulling a length of twine and a curved needle from her apron.

‘I wasn’t playing,’ said Kaspar, cursing the fact that he sounded like a scolded schoolboy as Sofia threaded the needle and pressed the point to his skin. He gritted his teeth as she expertly worked the needle through his skin, pulling the stitches tight and snipping the end of the twine with a small pocket knife.

‘There,’ she smiled, ‘good as new.’

‘Thank you, Sofia, that was mostly painless.’

‘Just be thankful I remembered to pack my small needle today,’ she said.

II

Kislev bustled with life, though having heard what Pavel had to say on the subject, he could see that many of the people on the streets and filling its parks were not natives of the city. They had the bemused, awed expressions common to peasants when they came to a large city. Even in the few short weeks he had been in Kislev, Kaspar could already see that there were more and more such people coming to the city every day.

On those occasions when he journeyed beyond the city walls to watch the Knights Panther training his embassy soldiers, the roads were always busy with columns of people with carts and drays heading south. The only traffic coming north was occasional river boats from the Empire riding low in the dark waters of the Urskoy as they brought in much-needed supplies. The grain stores of the city were already under pressure and the situation was only going to get worse if the stream of refugees from the north continued.

He had despatched numerous letters to several Empire merchants trading in Kislev in an attempt to secure supplies for the scattered remnants of Imperial regiments trapped here, but had had no luck thus far in cajoling any aid from them.

As each river boat hurriedly departed, Kaspar would ensure that each captain took sealed letters bound for Altdorf, each asking for news from home, requests for more supplies and information regarding the course of the war.

Tensions were high and several violent skirmishes between hungry people fighting for food had already been broken up the city watch and the Chekist. Kislev was filling up and that was not good for a city that would no doubt come under siege when the fighting season began in the spring. Kaspar knew that soon the Tzarina was going to have to bar the gates of her city and deny a great many of her people sanctuary. Kaspar had made that choice before and did not envy her the decision as to when to shut the gates. He could still remember the pleading faces outside the walls of Hauptburg when he had been forced to close the gates to save the mountain town from rampaging tribes of greenskins.

Desperate faces watched him from the streets and tree-lined boulevards, each one looking for some sign of hope, but he had none to give them. Every now and then he would catch a glimpse of a black armoured Chekist amongst the throng, and wondered if Pashenko was having him followed. It would not surprise him, but he could do little to prevent it as he and two of his Knights Panther rode slowly down the Urskoy Prospekt, making their way to Anastasia Vilkova’s home.

The woman intrigued Kaspar and though he had no wish to antagonise the jealous and fiery Sasha Kajetan any further, he found his thoughts constantly returning to Anastasia, her dark hair, emerald eyes and full lips. There was no doubt he was attracted to her and he believed that even though they had only briefly met, there had been a natural chemistry between them.

Whether that was wishful thinking, he didn’t know, but he had resolved to find out and thus he and his knights rode to the wealthier southern quarter of Kislev. In all probability it was a fool’s errand, but Kaspar had long ago resolved never to let opportunities, no matter how fleeting, pass him by.

Once Sofia had finished stitching his cut and applied a pleasantly aromatic poultice, they had enjoyed a sweet tisane together and he had asked her about Anastasia Vilkova.

‘She’s a noblewoman,’ had been Sofia’s curt response. ‘How do you know her?’

‘I don’t really,’ Kaspar had explained. ‘I met her at the Winter Palace last week and she bade me call on her.’

‘I see,’ said Sofia archly. ‘Well, be careful. I hear the swordsman, Sasha Kajetan, is fond of her.’

‘Aye, I noticed that.’

‘I don’t know too much about her, well, not any more than anyone else, really. I know she’s originally from Praag and that her husband was killed six or seven years ago, supposedly in a random attack by street thugs, and she took over his business interests.’

‘Why do you say “supposedly”?’ said Kaspar.

‘Well, the rumour was that her husband was involved in a few, shall we say, risqué business enterprises that were competing with those of the criminal underclasses.’

‘Go on,’ said Kaspar.

‘Well, they say that one of the gang leaders finally got tired of the competition and had his men follow and murder him as he made his way home from a house of ill repute.’

‘The bastard.’

‘Who?’ chuckled Sofia. ‘The husband for visiting a whorehouse or the gang leader for having him killed?’

‘You know what I meant. Don’t try and be clever, it doesn’t suit you.’

Sofia stuck out her tongue and continued. ‘Like I said, Madam Vilkova took over her husband’s businesses and cut out the parts that put her in competition with these men. She’s quite a wealthy woman now, and they say she donates a lot of money to various hospices and poorhouses around the city.’

‘Quite the philanthropist.’

‘Yes, one of our nobles actually worthy of the name,’ agreed Sofia. ‘So why does she want you to call on her?’

‘She didn’t really have time to say.’

‘Perhaps she is infatuated with you,’ laughed Sofia.

‘Perhaps she is. Is that so hard to believe?’ asked Kaspar, rather more brusquely than he had intended.

‘Not at all, Kaspar, you’re quite a catch.’

‘Now you are mocking me,’ said the ambassador, rising from the bench.

‘A little,’ agreed Sofia with a smile.

Kaspar had left Sofia and retired to his chambers to bathe and change before leaving the embassy to travel to Anastasia’s home. He had wanted to travel alone, but Kurt Bremen was unwilling to allow the ambassador to ride unaccompanied after the bloodshed at the gates following the Chekist’s attack on the grieving mob.

Thinking of the boyarin’s murder, Kaspar was still unsure what to make of the circumstances surrounding his death. A practical mindset had taught him not to believe in coincidence and he could not shake the nagging suspicion that the killing would yet prove to have some deeper connection to him. Quite what, he did not know, but Kaspar was not the kind of man to let such things lie unresolved. Pavel was already attempting to find out what, if any, connections Boyarin Kovovich had with any disreputable types and whether that trail led back, as Kaspar believed it would, to Chekatilo.

He turned his horse into a cobbled thoroughfare with a sign fixed to a black stone building that informed him it was known as Magnustrasse, and was momentarily taken aback seeing a street with an Empire name.

‘Perhaps they don’t hate us after all, eh?’ he said.

‘No, ambassador,’ said Valdhaas, still feeling guilty after cutting his master.

The streets here were less crowded than those nearer the centre of the city and Kaspar could practically feel the wealth around him. Clean plastered walls topped with broken glass embedded in mortar surrounded the homes of the wealthy elite of Kislev, each one high enough to keep out all but the most determined intruders.

He followed the street until he reached a stand of evergreen poplars. According to the scribbled directions on the note, these were directly opposite Anastasia’s home.

Her home was behind a high wall of dressed ashlar and an open gateway led within. Beyond the walls, Kaspar could see a tastefully constructed building at the end of a paved avenue with a lush, well-tended garden of herbs, shrubs and vividly coloured flowers before it.

Kaspar saw Anastasia kneeling before a small herb garden, tilling freshly turned dark earth with a small trowel, and was struck by a heart-rending sense of déjà vu. He forced a smile as she saw him and waved as she came towards him.

‘I’m so glad you came,’ she said.

III

Kaspar soon realised that Sofia had been correct in telling him that Anastasia was a very wealthy woman. Green liveried servants had taken their horses as they rode through the gate and led them to a long stable block set against the interior of the wall, while curtseying maids brought the riders some refreshments.

He and his knights had been handed cool glasses of apple juice with crushed ice, telling Kaspar that Anastasia was wealthy enough to have a chilled room below her home where the air was kept frozen by the enchantments of Kislev’s ice wizards.

His knights remained discreetly by the entrance to the townhouse while he and Anastasia repaired to an oak-panelled receiving room with a high, alabaster ceiling and a lush carpet patterned with coiling dragons spread over a gleaming hardwood floor.

The interior of the house spoke of great wealth, though never ostentatiously and always tastefully. Every room was elegantly appointed and none overwhelmed a guest with their expense, unlike the castles of many an Empire noble that did all they could to proclaim their owner’s wealth.

He and Anastasia had sat upon a sumptuous divan and chatted like old friends of inconsequential things until the matter of Boyarin Kovovich’s death inevitably arose.

‘I heard about that frightful business with that fool, Pashenko,’ said Anastasia. ‘Simply terrible that a man like you should be accused of something so horrible.’

‘Yes, it was ridiculous,’ agreed Kaspar.

‘What made Pashenko think you had anything to do with his death?’

Kaspar shrugged. ‘People at the palace saw the boyarin and myself exchange words and he leapt to the wrong conclusion.’

‘Pah! Pashenko is nekulturny and if he were to arrest every man who’d had words with Kovovich, then half of Kislev should be in the Chekist gaol.’

‘He wasn’t well liked then?’ asked Kaspar.

‘Not particularly,’ said Anastasia. ‘He was a boorish man and his wife deserves to be on the stage with the act she put on in front of your embassy. They say he beat her mercilessly, so why she should mourn his passing is beyond me.’

Kaspar shook his head, feeling less sorry for Alexei Kovovich the more he learned about him. The man had been a drunk and, by all accounts, Madam Kovovich would be better off without him. He finished his drink and set it down on a hand-carved walnut table beside the divan.

‘But enough of such matters, Kaspar,’ said Anastasia brightly. ‘Times are grim enough without us adding to them. Tell me of yourself, I am intrigued as to how a man such as you comes to be in Kislev at a time like this.’

‘I was sent here by my Emperor,’ said Kaspar.

‘Oh, come now, there must be more to it than that. Did you upset someone in power to merit such an… inauspicious posting?’

‘Inauspicious? Why do you say that?’

‘Because a posting here can surely bring you neither great material reward nor prestige, whereas a posting at the heart of diplomatic activity, say in Marienburg or Bordeleaux, might be a useful stepping-stone for a ministerial career. Or Tilea? I’m told that it at least has the benefit of a pleasant climate. But Kislev must surely hold little attraction? So tell me, truthfully mind, why did you come to Kislev?’

‘I told you. The Emperor asked me to take the post and I accepted.’

‘As simple as that?’

Kaspar nodded. ‘I served in the Emperor’s armies for nearly four decades, taking the Emperor Luitpold’s schilling when I was sixteen years old. I joined a pike regiment and spent the next six years fighting in Averland against one orc warlord after another. We marched and fought throughout the Empire, earning quite a name for ourselves I might add, defeating the beasts that hunt in the dark forests, the tribes of northmen who raid your country and the Ostermark, and any foe that came with murder in their hearts. I rose to command my regiment and fought at the side of the Emperor Karl-Franz himself at the Battle of Norduin. Over the years I earned yet more command until I led entire armies for my Emperor.’

‘Oh, this is very heroic,’ gushed Anastasia.

Kaspar smiled. ‘Perhaps, but my nation is in peril and it needs people who understand war to stand against its enemies if it is to survive. Diplomacy and negotiating can achieve only so much, and there comes a time when a man must be willing to fight for what is right. Kislev may not be the most glamorous posting, but if I can make a difference by coming here and helping our nations’ armies resist the coming invasion, then this is where I need to be.’

Anastasia smiled. ‘Then you are a true patriot and altruist. Men like you are rare.’

‘Not as rare as you think,’ smiled Kaspar.

Anastasia laughed and asked, ‘Why then did you leave the Emperor’s service?’

The smile fell from Kaspar’s face. ‘My wife, Madeline, had a weak heart and the worry of my absences placed great strain upon her,’ he said, his tone melancholy. ‘When I returned from campaigning in the Border Princedoms, I purchased an honourable discharge from the army and we retired to Nuln.’

‘I see. And your wife… does she await your homecoming?’

‘No, ’ said Kaspar, shaking his head. ‘Madeline died three years ago. She collapsed in our garden while tending to her roses. The priest of Morr said her heart simply gave out, that it had no more life to give. He said she would have felt nothing, which I suppose is a blessing of sorts.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Kaspar,’ said Anastasia, sliding along the divan and taking his hands in hers. ‘That was thoughtless of me. Please forgive me, I didn’t mean for you to recall such a painful memory.’

Kaspar said, ‘That’s alright, Anastasia, you weren’t to know.’

‘Maybe not, but I should have been more thoughtful. I too know what it is to lose a loved one. Andrej, my husband, was murdered six years ago.’

Kaspar reached up and wiped a burgeoning tear from the corner of Anastasia’s eye.

‘I’m sorry. Was the murderer ever caught?’

‘Pah! The city watch and the Chekist did nothing! Andrej, Ursun rest his soul, was in some ways a very sweet man, but in others very naïve. Unbeknownst to me, he had invested some of his money in some rather colourful ventures with a lichnostyob called Chekatilo.’

Kaspar had cause already to despise Chekatilo and mentally chalked up another.

‘I know of Herr Chekatilo,’ he said.

‘Well, no one knows for sure, but I was told that Andrej was on his way home from a meeting of the Merchant’s Guild when they say he was set upon by some footpads. They robbed him of his purse and beat him to death with an iron bar.’

Kaspar thought of the version of this tale Sofia had told him and gave thanks to whomever had spared Anastasia the truth of from where her husband had actually been returning.

‘Of course, nothing was ever done about it, but I knew the truth of the matter. I couldn’t prove anything of course, but I knew in my heart that the bastard had a hand in Andrej’s death.’

Anastasia’s eyes filled with tears and her hands flew to her face. ‘I’m so sorry, I apologise for my language, but the thought of that piece of human filth still walking the streets makes me so angry.’

Kaspar leaned close and put his arm around her shoulders, unsure as to what he could say to comfort her. Instead he just pulled her close and let her rest her head on his shoulder, smudging kohl from her teary eyes onto his jerkin.

‘Don’t worry,’ promised Kaspar. ‘I won’t let him hurt you ever again.’

IV

Kaspar placed a coin into the hand of the groom holding his mount, pleased to see that the man had taken the time to brush out the horse’s silver mane and tail as well as clearing its hooves of stones. He gripped the saddle horn and swung onto his horse’s back, casting a protective glance back at Anastasia’s home.

They had taken comfort in each other’s arms for some minutes before Anastasia had excused herself and Kaspar decided that he should leave her to her grief and withdraw. The scent of her hair and skin were still in his nostrils as he and the Knights Panther guided their horses back onto the Magnustrasse.

Dusk was drawing in and the sun slowly sinking below the line of buildings in the west. Kaspar saw six riders at the end of the street, silhouetted in the dying rays of the sun and his heart sank as he recognised the spiked coxcomb of Sasha Kajetan. He and five of his muscular, blade-pierced warriors cantered towards them, their leader’s face cold and his violet eyes blazing in fury.

‘Sigmar’s blood, not this,’ hissed Kaspar under his breath. The two Knights Panther pushed their horses in front of his, wrapping their mounts’ reins around their left hands while gripping their swords threateningly.

Kaspar said, ‘Ignore them. We’ll try and go around them.’

Valdhaas nodded as the three of them walked their mounts to the edge of the street, keeping their own horses between Kajetan’s men and the ambassador.

But the swordsman was having none of it, his warriors spreading out to block the street in a long line. Kaspar slid his hand beneath his cloak and eased back the flint on his pistol.

‘What are you doing here?’ snapped Kajetan.

Kaspar ignored him, keeping his eyes focussed on the end of the street and sliding his finger around the curved silver trigger. He saw other dark horsemen gathered there, but couldn’t make out who they were in the glare of the setting sun. Kaspar and the knights kept moving forwards, but Kajetan and his warriors expertly walked their horses backwards. The swordsman kept his gaze locked with Kaspar.

‘I asked you a question, Empire man.’

‘And I ignored you.’

Kajetan’s sabre was in his hand so quickly Kaspar barely saw it leave its sheath.

‘When I ask a question, I expect an answer.’

Valdhaas and his comrade quickly drew their swords and, realising this situation could get out of hand with the slightest spark, Kaspar said, ‘I was visiting a friend, if you must know. Madam Vilkova invited me to call upon her and I accepted her gracious invitation.’

Kajetan said, ‘I told you to stay away from her.’

‘I do as I please, Herr Kajetan, and do not count myself beholden to you in whom I may visit,’ replied Kaspar. He saw Kajetan’s eyes fasten on the shoulder of his tunic and quickly realised what the swordsman was looking at.

The smudge of kohl from Anastasia’s eyelashes.

Kajetan’s eyes widened and his jaw tensed.

Kaspar realised what was coming and whipped out his cocked pistol, aiming it square between Kajetan’s eyes. The swordsman froze, a tight smile playing around the corner of his mouth.

‘You going to shoot me, Empire man?’

‘If I have to,’ answered Kaspar.

‘My men would kill you all for that,’ assured Kajetan.

‘Yes, they probably would, but you’d still be dead.’

‘Is of no matter,’ shrugged Kajetan and Kaspar was shocked to see he really meant it.

The frozen moment stretched for long seconds before a clipped voice from behind Kajetan and his men said, ‘Ambassador von Velten, Sasha Kajetan. I would appreciate it if you would both lower your weapons. My men have all of you covered with muskets and I assure you, they are all excellent shots.’

Reluctantly, Kaspar broke eye contact with the swordsman, seeing Vladimir Pashenko and ten mounted Chekist, all with short-barrelled carbines aimed at them.

‘Now, please,’ said Pashenko. Ten musket flints cocked with a series of loud clicks.

Kaspar eased down the flintlock of his pistol and slowly holstered it as Kajetan reluctantly sheathed his curved cavalry sabre.

The leader of the Chekist walked his horse forward, interposing it between Kaspar and the swordsman.

‘It seems you attract trouble, herr ambassador,’ said Pashenko.

‘Have you had your men following me?’ asked Kaspar.

‘Of course,’ replied the Chekist as though it were the most natural thing in the world and Kaspar should not be surprised. ‘You are a potential suspect in a murder investigation, why would I not have you watched? And it would appear that you should be glad I did. I am sure this little drama would have ended badly for you had we not intervened.’

Kajetan sneered and Pashenko turned his attention to him. ‘Do not think that your reputation protects you from my attentions either, Sasha. Had I allowed you to kill this man, you would have danced a jig on the end of the hangman’s rope in Geroyev Square before the week was out.’

‘I’d like to have seen you try,’ said Kajetan. He spat on the ground before Kaspar, before turning his horse and galloping eastwards, his men close behind.

Kaspar felt the tension drain from him as he watched Kajetan’s retreating back, running a hand across his scalp and letting out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

‘If I were you,’ advised Pashenko, ‘I would steer clear of that one. He is in love with Madam Vilkova and love makes a man do foolish things.’

Though he despised the Chekist, Kaspar forced himself to be gracious. ‘Thank you, Herr Pashenko, for coming to our aid. This could have got out of hand very quickly.’

‘Do not be so quick to thank me, herr ambassador. Part of me wanted to let Sasha kill you, but he is a hero to our people and it would be frowned upon if I were to have him hanged.’

Pashenko turned his horse and said, ‘But you do not enjoy such a privileged status, herr ambassador, so I would be mindful of who you point that pistol at.’

CHAPTER FIVE

I

The first snow broke over Kislev as dusk drew in on Mittherbst, a day sacred to Ulric, the god of battle and winter. The priests of Ulric rejoiced as the first flakes drifted from the leaden sky, proclaiming that the favour of the wolf god was with them. Others were less certain: the snows and plummeting temperatures were certain to cause great misery and suffering amongst the thousands of refugees filling the city and dwelling in the sprawling canvas camps beyond its walls.

Daily, the stream of refugees from the north grew until the Tzarina was forced to order the gates of the city shut. Kislev simply could not contain any more people. With the practicality common to the Kislevite peasantry, many of the refugees simply decided to continue south towards the Empire, desperate to put as much distance between themselves and the threat of annihilation. Others formed whatever shelters their meagre belongings allowed them and camped around the walls beside the enclaves of Empire and Kislev soldiery.

As the numbers of people grew, the name of the monster that had driven them from their homes came to be heard more and more. Beginning as a low murmur on the fringes of fire-lit conversations and growing in the telling to assume terrifying proportions, the beast’s name took on a power all of its own. Tales abounded of stanistas burned to the ground, women and children put to the sword. All manner of atrocities were attributed to the monster and as each day passed, more and more tales of this barbarian spread from campfire to campfire.

It was said that his warriors had cut open the bellies of every living soul in the Ramaejk stanista and impaled them on the sharpened pine logs of their defensive wall. Carrion birds had feasted on the still-living bodies for days and the macabre scene had been left as a monument to the triumph of the monster.

Who had first given voice to the monster’s name was a mystery. Perhaps it was not a name at all, but a misheard battle cry, or a cursed talisman to be passed on by those he spared that they might carry the terror of his name and deeds southwards.

However it came to be spoken, the name of Aelfric Cyenwulf, high chieftain of the northern tribes and favoured lieutenant of the dread Archaon himself, had come to Kislev. War-chiefs of the Kurgan were nothing new and the oldest men and women of the steppe knew of many bloodthirsty barbarian leaders who had come and gone. They knew that northern tribes had raided their land before, but even they understood that this time was different.

This time the tribes did not come for plunder, this time they came to destroy.

II

Kaspar watched the snow falling from the darkening sky with a mixture of apprehension and relief on the sawtoothed ramparts of the city walls. The snows would slow an army and would, in all likelihood, force it to retreat to its winter quarters or face destruction as its warriors starved and froze to death.

Though the snowfall was light, Kaspar knew that the achingly cold Kislevite winter could be little more than a couple of weeks away at best. It would grip the nation in its frozen embrace and bury the landscape in an endless blanket of snow. The Kislevites called this time ‘Raspotitsa’, which meant roadlessness, and travel became virtually impossible as every trail and road was hidden beneath the snows.

He turned from the walls and the twisting columns of smoke caught in the harsh winds that blew off the northern oblast. Hundreds of small fires burned from the campsites before the walls as people huddled around them for warmth. The most vulnerable people were already dying, the elderly and the newborn unable to survive the bitter cold and lack of food. The soldiers camped nearby fared little better, bereft of supplies and news from home, their morale was virtually non-existent.

Kaspar knew that it was the simple things in life that kept a soldier well motivated and in high spirits. A rousing speech from a leader might put a fire in his heart, but a warm meal and a drop of alcohol would be far more appreciated. So far, the soldiers of the Empire had neither, though Kaspar was about to remedy that.

He watched as a convoy of fifteen long riverboats plied their stately passage along the Urskoy, sliding through the dark waters towards the portcullis of the western river gate. Boatmen lowered sails on the lead boat as it was swallowed by the shadow of the high walls. Kaspar saw the vessel’s name painted on her hull, just above the waterline and followed its progress as it emerged from the water gate and made its way upriver to the docks.

Pavel Korovic and Kurt Bremen climbed the steps to join him on the ramparts.

‘Is that them?’ asked Bremen.

Kaspar nodded. ‘Aye, the lead boat is Scheerlagen’s Maiden, that’s them. Are your men ready?’

‘We are,’ promised Bremen.

‘Then let’s go,’ said Kaspar.

III

They followed the riverboats as they made their way towards the main docks of the city. Kaspar was no sailor, having learned to loathe any form of sea travel as a young man, but even he could tell every boat was running dangerously overfull, the slow waters of the river close to spilling over their gunwales. Several times they lost sight of the convoy as they were forced into frustrating detours to avoid streets choked with people, but it was always easy to find again as the river was empty of traffic, most captains already having taken their boats south to join the Talabec and carry onwards to Altdorf or Nuln.

Passers-by gave them curious looks, a man of obvious quality riding with a bearded Kislevite on a struggling, sway-backed dray horse and accompanied by a group of sixteen knights in gleaming plate armour. The crew of the riverboats did not long remain oblivious to their presence either, shouting over to them with loud ahoys.

Kaspar and the knights ignored them, but Pavel shouted over.

‘What news from south?’

‘Wolfenburg is no more,’ shouted back a sailor.

‘A great storm destroyed it,’ shouted another. ‘Dark magicks they say!’

Kaspar let Pavel converse with the men on the boats, too focussed on the task at hand to bother swapping banter with men he might soon have to confront. He had been waiting for the convoy led by Scheerlagen’s Maiden since receiving letters from Altdorf four days ago.

Emblazoned with the crest of the Second House of Wilhelm and that of the Imperial Commissariat, the letters demanded to know what actions had been taken to prevent further depredations on their wares. Kaspar had no idea what the letters referred to until he spent a gruelling day examining the records kept by the former ambassador. Taken together, he now knew why the Empire regiments in Kislev were starving and why the grain houses of the city were under so much strain. It also went some way to explaining why the ruler of Kislev had met his requests for an audience thus far with nothing but bureaucratic brick walls and polite rebuffs.

Supplies were, it seemed, arriving in Kislev, they just weren’t getting to their intended recipients. For the last twelve months, a merchant from Hochland named Matthias Gerhard had been tasked by the Imperial Commissariat with the job of distributing food and weapons as well as the many and varied sundries required by a nation and her allies in time of war. The Emperor had sent a fortune in supplies to Kislev but very little had ever reached those who desperately needed them.

The letters spoke of frequent thefts from the warehouses of Matthias Gerhard, and though his replies spoke of increased watchfulness, it seemed that nothing could prevent the haemorrhaging of supplies from his warehouses. Gerhard blamed the shiftless Kislevites, and to those in Altdorf it must have seemed as though the barbarous people of their northern neighbour were, through their own laziness and stupidity, cursing themselves to starvation and defeat. But here in the city, where it was clear that no one had enough to survive, it was obvious that the supplies were being stolen, just not by footpads.

Kaspar’s fury at Teugenheim grew the more he read of the man’s journal. The former ambassador must have known that desperately needed supplies from the Empire were being stolen by those entrusted with their distribution, yet had done nothing to prevent it.

Well, this ambassador would have something to say about that.

IV

The Scheerlagen’s Maiden was in the process of being unloaded by the time they reached the quayside. A few other boats had moored, their crews tying thick ropes to iron bollards while others waited their turn at the quay. The sense of relief in the crew of Scheerlagen’s Maiden was obvious now that they had finally arrived at their destination, and her captain didn’t even seem to mind the exorbitant quayage levied on his ship.

Thick-cloaked Kislevite stevedores hauled scores of crates, barrels and heavy sacks on sturdy pulley mechanisms from the ship’s hold and onto the cobbled quay where a number of wide-bodied wagons awaited them. A burly man with a large, bushy beard joked with the ship’s captain, who looked like he simply wanted to get his vessels unloaded and depart.

‘Spread out,’ said Kaspar. ‘Don’t let any of the wagons leave.’

Bremen nodded and jabbed his mailed fist at the three routes leading from the quayside. The knights walked their horses towards them, forming a line of steel and blocking any passage with their heavy horses. With their visors lowered, they were a fearsome sight and though not one had a weapon drawn, the threat was obvious.

The crews and the struggling stevedores finally noticed their presence and cast bemused looks about the docks as Kaspar, Bremen and Pavel rode up to them. A few of the stevedores surreptitiously reached for knives or cudgels, but the scrape of sixteen wickedly sharp cavalry blades being drawn convinced them not to reach any further. The knights were horribly outnumbered, but even these thugs knew they could not defeat heavily armoured and well-trained knights.

The leader of the Knights Panther and Pavel dismounted while Kaspar retained the advantage of height.

‘Those supplies,’ he said to the captain, ‘what are they?’

‘What business is it of yours, fellow?’ said the man.

‘I am the ambassador of the Emperor Karl-Franz and I will ask the questions.’

Seeing the knights and hearing Kaspar’s southern accent, the captain nodded.

‘Very well, we’re bringing in grain, salt, sword blades, axe heads and wheat. All signed, sealed and delivered. What’s your problem?’

Kaspar ignored the question and addressed the Kislevite quaymaster next. ‘And where do you take this cargo once it’s been unloaded?’

The man didn’t answer until Pavel barked Kaspar’s question in his native tongue. His gaze switching between the two men, the quaymaster sneered and snarled his reply. Kaspar didn’t understand his words, but caught the name Gerhard in the torrent of Kislevite.

‘He say supplies for Gerhard’s warehouse,’ translated Pavel.

‘Good,’ said Kaspar. ‘Tell them to finish emptying the boats and load the wagons.’

‘Then what?’ said Pavel.

‘Then we wait for Herr Gerhard,’ said Kaspar.

V

Valery Shewchuk pulled his wife and two daughters closer, feeling their ribs through the thin blanket that was all that separated them from the bitterly cold night. Snow fell in a drifting rain, but they had a good spot here in one of the many cobbled alleyways of the city, a recessed stairway that led up to a door which had long since been bricked up. Protected from the worst of the thieving winds and snow that stole the heat from your body, it was as close to shelter as he could find for his family. He brushed a strand of hair from his Nicolje’s face, wishing she could have provided him with sons.

Cursed with aged parents and no sons to send off to war, he had struggled to find enough food to feed his extended family and even though the people of his stanista had tried to help, they could not neglect their own families for the sake of another.

Three weeks ago, his parents had left the stanista during the night and trudged out into the windswept oblast with no blankets and no food. No one had seen them leave and their frozen bodies had been discovered less than half a league from the gates of the stanista, lying embracing one another in the middle of the road.

Valery had wept for them, appreciating their sacrifice, but secretly relieved that he would no longer have to provide for them. As news of yet more stanistas and larger settlements being attacked reached the stanista’s ataman, Valery made the decision to leave their izba and take his family to the capital.

He had laden his wagon with their meagre possessions and left, tearfully embracing his friends and neighbours. It had been a hard ride south and they had lost their youngest daughter on the journey, the infant succumbing to a fever that his Nicolje’s herbal remedies could not break. They had buried her on the steppe and continued south.

Upon reaching the capital, he had sold his wagon and pony for a pittance and tried desperately to find some kind of work and lodgings for his family. None were available and they had been forced into this filthy alleyway, surviving on what he could steal or they could purchase with the few copper coins left to them.

Three times he had had to fight away thieves and other miscreants who sought to oust them from their shelter, and though he was desperately hungry and exhausted, Valery Shewchuk was a big man and not easy to put down.

He heard a soft padding on the snow from further up the alleyway and held his breath. Too soft for a booted foot, it might be an animal, a dog or cat or rat and the thought of fresh meat brought saliva to his mouth.

Valery slid his bone-handled knife, his one possession he had refused to sell, from its hide sheath and eased himself from the blanket. As thin as it was, he still felt the cold slice through him. His wife stirred from troubled dreams and groggily opened her eyes.

‘Valery?’

‘Hush, Nicolje,’ he whispered. ‘Perhaps food.’

He stood and slid himself up the wall, descending the steps and gripping his knife tightly. He hoped the noise he had heard was a dog. There was good eating on a dog.

He couldn’t hear the sound any more and decided he would risk a glance around the edge of the recess to catch sight of his prey.

Valery eased his head around the stonework and his jaw fell open as he saw a naked man crouched in the shadows of the snowy alleyway. The man was obviously a madman, abroad in weather like this without furs or a cloak and, by Ursun, Valery was not about to have this lunatic dislodge them from their shelter.

The man gently rocked and muttered to himself, one hand tucked between his legs as he scraped at the flesh of his arms with ragged fingernails. The snow melted where droplets of blood landed.

‘Ho there,’ said Valery, raising his knife. ‘Find yourself somewhere else to bed for the night.’

The man ignored him, muttering, ‘No, no, no. They’re just dreams… you are not me…’

Valery took a nervous step into the alleyway, keeping the tip of his knife pointed towards the crouched figure.

The man’s head snapped up and Valery saw that he was wearing an ill-fitting mask of what appeared to be greyish leather, crudely stitched and curling at the edges. Eyes that glittered with lunacy stared through the mask at him.

The madman grinned saying, ‘Wrong. I am the trueself,’ and leapt forwards, a glittering knife appearing in his hand. The blade slashed down and Valery dropped, his lifeblood spraying from the severed artery in his thigh. He twisted as he fell and cracked his head on the ground.

‘By Tor, leave my family alone!’ he cried. ‘I love them so much, I don’t care that I have no sons. I love them too much to leave them. Please…’

He heard screams and a hissing noise, like meat on a skillet, from the recess of the steps, but couldn’t see what was happening. He wept bitter tears, crawling weakly through the stained snow to reach his family.

The screams stopped.

A waterfall of blood spilled down the steps, pooling in the snow at their base.

The man who had murdered his family stepped into the alleyway, his face, chest and belly caked with blood that gleamed black in the moonlight. His eyes were alight, his chest heaving with excitement as the thrill of the kill pulsed through his veins.

Valery tried to reach for him as he felt his vision greying.

‘No,’ said the man, gently pushing him onto his back and leaning over him.

His bloody jaws opened wide.

The madman vomited a froth of gristly blood over his chest and Valery screamed in agony as the viscous liquid hissed and ate the flesh from his bones.

He died as he felt a hand push deep inside the ruin of his chest.

VI

Sorka could hear screaming from somewhere, but ignored it. These days it was stranger when you didn’t hear someone suffering. He made his way swiftly down the busy prospekt, still teeming with people despite the darkness and cold. He supposed some people had nowhere to go and feared lying down in the snow lest they not wake up again.

He clutched the metal box tightly within his jerkin, afraid to let it out of his sight, but terrified of holding it too close. Perhaps six inches square, the box was far heavier than something that size had any right to be, and though he had the key to the blackened padlock, the thought of opening the box both horrified and nauseated him. Ever since Chekatilo had given him the box to deliver, he had felt distinctly unwell.

He had been working for the leader of Kislev’s criminal empire for nearly six months, spending most of that time enforcing his boss’s will through a mixture of beatings, arson and intimidation. He was a big, solid man with little imagination and it thrilled him that his master had entrusted him with a mission of such obvious importance.

‘Sorka,’ Chekatilo had said, ‘this is of great value to me. It must be delivered at midnight precisely at the end of Lime Alley, you know the place?’

Sorka had nodded, having dumped at least three corpses there. ‘I won’t let you down,’ he had promised. He had been told to go to the basement and collect the metal box he now carried and had left immediately. His skin itched and his stomach churned with sickness. Perhaps the fish he had eaten earlier had been off.

He turned from the Goromadny Prospekt and wound his way through the twisting streets, checking his back trail to make sure he wasn’t being followed. The fresh snows made it difficult to be sure and the busyness of the streets didn’t help much either, but he couldn’t see anyone behind him.

At last he came to the entrance of Lime Alley and quickly checked behind him one last time. Satisfied that there was no one nearby, he ghosted into the alley, making his way carefully along its length. Sorka could see that someone had already dumped a body here tonight. The cold had deadened the smell and the dogs had not found it yet, but they would soon enough.

From a pool of shadow ahead a voice called out.

‘Do you have it?’

Sorka jumped, startled by the voice. He struggled to remember what he had been ordered to say.

‘Yes, if you have the money.’

‘I have it,’ said the man. ‘Put the box down and back away from it.’

That wasn’t how this was supposed to happen and Sorka struggled to think of what to say. ‘Show me the money and then I’ll do it.’

‘No.’

Unused to such flat refusals to cooperate, Sorka wasn’t sure what to do next. He worked for Chekatilo, therefore when he gave orders they were obeyed quickly. He decided to play along with this fool and wrapped a hand round the hilt of his dagger, sure that he could deal with him if he tried to pull something funny. There was, after all, only one way out of this alley, and that meant going through him.

Not an easy task for anyone, he knew.

‘Very well,’ he said removing the box from below his jerkin and placing it on the ground. He fished the key from around his neck and dropped it next to the box.

The man moved from the shadows, his face obscured by a hooded cloak and knelt by the box, swiftly unlocking it. Gripping a dark amulet around his neck, he lifted the lid a fraction.

A soft green glow emanated from the box, casting a spectral light over the man and throwing his shadow onto the wall behind him.

To Sorka it looked as though the shadow writhed with a life of its own, no longer mimicking the man it belonged to.

He frowned and blinked to clear his head of the bizarre image, but the mischievous shadow continued in its dance, the darkness of its head swelling as twin horns formed at its brow.

He opened his mouth to comment on this when the kneeling man shot the top of his head off with a wheel-lock pistol.

VII

The pistol shot echoed from the mouth of the alleyway and minutes later the dark cloaked man carefully eased his head around the corner. The moon slid from behind the clouds, casting its monochrome light onto the snow-covered street and illuminating his face.

He checked both ways before stepping confidently into the street and making his way back to the centre of the city.

From the opposite side of the street, two men swathed in furs watched him go.

‘He shot Sorka,’ said the smaller of the two men.

Vassily Chekatilo nodded, rubbing a hand over his chin and tugging at the ends of his moustache. ‘Yes, Rejak, I would have done the same thing.’

‘We should stop him!’ protested Rejak. ‘He’s trying to cheat you.’

Chekatilo shook his head. ‘No, leave him. I am happy to be rid of that damned box and wish I had never agreed to obtain it. And anyway, I think it may profit us more in the long run knowing who we actually obtained it for.’

‘But what about Sorka?’

‘I will shed no tears over Sorka,’ said Chekatilo. ‘He followed orders well enough, but there are plenty more like him and he will be no great loss to my organisation.’

‘Should we see if he’s dead?’

‘No, Rejak, leave him. The dogs have to eat too.’

Rejak shrugged. He nodded in the direction of the man making off with the metal box and said, ‘What does someone like him want with something that dangerous?’

‘What indeed?’ agreed Chekatilo, wondering why Pjotr Losov, chief advisor to the Tzarina of Kislev, would want a box containing a fist-sized chunk of warpstone.

VIII

Kaspar was impressed at how little time it took Matthias Gerhard to come looking for the supplies from the riverboats when they failed to arrive at his warehouses. Once the stevedores had finished unloading the boats, Kaspar had sent them on their way and every one of them had quickly vanished into the night. He ordered the riverboat crews to return to the Empire and, once they had left, the docks became eerily quiet, the water slapping against the stonework of the quayside the only sound save for the occasional scream and a solitary pistol shot.

They had waited at the quayside for a little over two hours before the clatter of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves drew close.

The Knights Panther parted as a red and gold troika rattled across the cobbles to the quayside. Of Kislevite origin, the troika was pulled by three horses harnessed abreast of each other, and even in the dim moonlight Kaspar could see it was one of expensive design and elaborate workmanship. It was not hard to guess where the money appropriated by Matthias Gerhard had gone. Six men armoured in heavy hauberks of thick mail links and carrying long spears sat atop the carriage. As it drew to a halt, the Knights Panther gathered in a ring of steel around the troika, cutting off any escape.

The six guards shot each other hurried glances before reluctantly clambering down.

Kaspar relished their obvious discomfort. By now Matthias Gerhard would know that his missing supplies were not the result of some underling’s incompetence and Kaspar smiled mirthlessly as the carriage door opened and a tall man of obvious means stepped onto the quay. He wore a gold headband over his shoulder-length blond hair, an expensive crimson doublet slashed with yellow silk and a furred dolman laced with silver threads. Sovereign rings decorated each finger and thick golden chains of office hung around his neck, proving that Matthias Gerhard had wealth, if not taste.

The man’s unease was clear and Kaspar decided to attack and put him off balance further before he could rally a defence. He dismounted from his horse and strode towards the merchant.

‘Matthias Gerhard, you are a thieving bastard and I should hand you over to the Chekist right now for what you’ve done.’

Despite Kaspar’s venomous tone, Gerhard recovered quickly. He was an influential man in a city that did not suffer fools gladly, and no one became as rich as he had without the capacity to keep his wits about him.

‘Am I to assume that you are Ambassador von Velten and these are your knights?’ he asked.

‘You would be correct in that assumption.’

‘Then might I enquire as to why you have detained the Emperor’s supplies here?’ said Gerhard. ‘They should be on their way to my warehouses now. There are many in this city who would gladly take the chance to appropriate these goods for their own ends, as I am sure you know.’

‘Oh, yes, I know sure enough,’ snapped Kaspar. ‘Teugenheim’s journal and letters I received from Altdorf have told me all I need to know about those kinds of people.’

‘Then you will have no objection to my summoning men to have them taken to a place of safe storage,’ continued Gerhard smoothly.

‘Don’t you understand, Gerhard?’ said Kaspar, brandishing the letter from the Imperial Commissariat. ‘It’s over. I know what you’ve been up to and I’ll see you swing from the end of a rope for what you’ve done.’

‘Really?’ replied Gerhard. ‘What do you think you know?’

‘That you’ve been reporting these supplies as stolen and then selling them on. Tell me how else you can account for the sheer volume of supplies that have gone “missing”?’

‘Herr ambassador,’ said Gerhard patiently. ‘I assure you, the goods the Emperor has sent north are being thieved by parties other than myself. I have all the proper paperwork from the city watch to prove it.’

‘I don’t need to prove it, I know what you’ve been doing. I’ve seen it a hundred times before in the army. Crooked quartermasters keeping back supplies and selling them on to the highest bidder. You’re nothing but a common thief!’

‘Are you trying to make me angry, ambassador?’

‘Aye,’ admitted Kaspar, feeling his own temper fray.

‘Then you have been a soldier too long, herr ambassador. I am a civilised man, and unlike you, I have learned to control my anger and settle my differences without resorting to violence. Perhaps you should too.’

Kaspar realised that he would get nowhere with Gerhard like this, and grabbed the merchant’s tunic, dragging him over to the water’s edge. Gerhard’s guards stepped forward, but the Knights Panther closed in and prevented them from taking action.

‘Really, ambassador!’ spluttered Gerhard. ‘This is outrageous!’

‘I tend to agree with you there, Matthias,’ said Kaspar, finally reaching the steps that led down to the dark, icy waters of the Urskoy.

‘Herr ambassador!’ pleaded Gerhard as he realised what Kaspar intended. ‘There is really no need for this.’

‘Ah, well, that’s where our opinions differ then,’ said Kaspar and pushed the merchant from the quayside.

Matthias Gerhard splashed into the water, breaking the surface seconds later and thrashing the river white in his panic. He coughed and screamed, his cries for help gurgling as he swallowed water. The merchant desperately trod water, but his heavy clothes and thick chains conspired to drag him down and his head disappeared beneath the surface of the water again. A torrent of bubbles churned the water as the merchant’s head broke through once more.

‘Please!’ he yelled, finally grasping hold of the stone steps. He wheezed breathlessly, gratefully sucking air into his searing lungs until Kaspar trod on his fingers with the wooden heel of his riding boots. The merchant wailed and slid back under the water.

‘Get me one of his guards’ spears,’ he called up to the quay. He could see Kurt Bremen silhouetted against the brightness of the moon, sensing the knight’s displeasure, but he was past caring. Getting the job done was all that mattered now and if he had to resort to violence, well that was too bad.

If Gerhard believed he was a thuggish soldier, then he would behave like one.

‘Here,’ said Bremen icily.

‘Thank you, Kurt,’ said the ambassador as Gerhard thrashed his way to the surface once more. Kaspar saw that the merchant was all but spent and held the spear out to him, tantalisingly just out his reach.

The man struggled to grab the wooden shaft of the spear, but each time his fingers brushed it, Kaspar lifted it away.

‘Are you ready to talk without feeding me dung now, Matthias?’ asked Kaspar.

‘Yes!’ screamed the merchant, and Kaspar let him grab the spear shaft.

He hauled him close to the steps and gestured for his knights to come and lift the sodden man from the water.

Gerhard rolled onto his side and puked dirty water, his face blue from the freezing temperature of the Urskoy. He wept and as Kaspar knelt beside the gasping merchant, he could smell that Gerhard had soiled himself in terror.

He brushed wet hair from the man’s face and said, ‘Now that I have your undivided attention, I think we are ready to talk. You have been selling on the Emperor’s supplies have you not?’

Gerhard coughed, but nodded slowly.

‘Good,’ continued Kaspar. ‘Now we are getting somewhere. That’s over now. Everything you still have and all that arrives from the Empire from now on is going to get to those who desperately need it. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, yes, I do.’

‘Now, while you deserve to be thrown in the deepest, darkest cell for what you’ve done, I still need you to coordinate the distribution of the supplies to the soldiery and people of this city. You will work with my aide, Stefan, and trust me when I say that he will know if you fall back on your bad old ways.’

Kaspar stood, massaging his stiff knee and climbed the steps to the quay.

Kurt Bremen awaited him and said quietly, ‘Ambassador, may I speak freely?’

‘Of course, Kurt.’

‘Ambassador, I am uncomfortable with these… brutal methods you seem to favour. Is it really fitting for an emissary of the Emperor to be seen behaving in such a manner.’

Kaspar nodded. ‘I understand your objections, Kurt, really I do. It gives me no pleasure to have to resort to such methods, but sometimes a show of force is necessary to get results from those who believe themselves above notions of honesty and duty.’

The knight looked unconvinced and said, ‘My knights and I are the instrument by which your will is carried out, Ambassador von Velten, but we must enforce that will in accordance with the vows of our order’s code of honour. That is our purpose here and while we are bound to your cause, we cannot perform our duties properly if you insist on behaving like this. You must allow us to do our job without violating our code of honour.’

‘Of course, Kurt, but perhaps Gerhard was right,’ said Kaspar. ‘Perhaps I have been a soldier too long for an ambassadorial position, but such is my lot and this is the only way I know to carry out my duty to the Emperor.’

Bremen nodded curtly, though Kaspar could tell that the knight did not accept what he had just said.

‘What do you want done with Gerhard?’ asked Bremen, changing the subject.

‘Take him back to his lodgings and get him cleaned up. I want some of your men to keep watch on him and make sure he doesn’t try to leave the city. I’ll send Stefan over in the morning to see what’s left of the supplies Gerhard stole so we can begin getting them to our men.’

Bremen turned away and began issuing orders to his men as Kaspar returned to his horse, suddenly feeling the weight of every one of his fifty-four years.

CHAPTER SIX

I

The smell of cooking meat drifted through the campsite of the Wissenland arquebusiers. Soldiers chewed on fresh baked bread and cheese and washed it down with mugs of Nordland ale. Laughter and the excited babble of conversation surrounded every cookfire and the rekindled spirit evident in the Empire soldiers was a joy to behold, thought Kaspar.

This same scene had been repeated several times over the last five days as Kaspar, Anastasia and wagons driven by the embassy soldiers had delivered much needed supplies to the weary and hungry soldiers of the city. After inventorying Gerhard’s warehouses, Stefan had discovered a veritable cornucopia of vital goods and had, together with the disgraced merchant, begun the task of getting them to those who so desperately needed them. Kaspar had asked Sofia to keep a watchful eye on the merchant as well, as he did not want the man to catch a fever from his long immersion in the frozen waters of the Urskoy. No, Gerhard would not escape his punishment that easily.

He and Anastasia sat atop the buckboard of an empty wagon, winding their way through the thousands who camped outside the walls, making their way back to the city after yet another trip from the warehouses of Matthias Gerhard. The afternoon’s light was deepening to the purple of dusk and Kaspar had no wish to be outside any longer than necessary as the temperature began to drop rapidly. Four mounted Knights Panther rode alongside them, pennons snapping from their silver lance tips in the stiff afternoon breeze and the smiles and the blessings from the crowds of refugees were a refreshing change to the guarded hostility he had encountered in Kislev thus far.

‘This is incredible, Kaspar, the difference this has made,’ said Anastasia, wrapped tightly in a white cloak edged in snow leopard fur. Her cheeks were red with the cold, but her eyes sparkled as she spoke.

‘I know,’ smiled Kaspar, pleased at the wholesale change in the demeanour of the soldiers camped around Kislev.

‘Where did all this come from?’ asked Anastasia.

‘A thieving swine from Hochland named Matthias Gerhard,’ replied Kaspar. ‘He’d been hoarding it all for himself and his warehouses were full to bursting with all manner of stolen goods: weapons, tarpaulins, boots, uniforms, grain, salt beef, black powder, shot, billhooks, pioneer tools and even three cannons from the Imperial Gunnery school.’

‘And he had no intention of sharing any of it?’

‘No, Anastasia, not one shred of it. Not without payment anyway.’

‘I told you already, call me Ana. All my friends do.’

‘Very well,’ chuckled Kaspar. ‘I cannot refuse the word of a lady.’

‘Good,’ said Anastasia with mock sternness. ‘Make sure you remember that, Kaspar von Velten. As to Herr Gerhard, I hope you’ll be making sure he’ll be punished.’

‘Oh yes,’ assured Kaspar. ‘I’m no quartermaster, and if I didn’t need him to help co-ordinating the logistics of this operation I’d have left him in the river with the rest of the scum.’

Anastasia leaned into him as the wagon made its way up the Gora Geroyev, and Kaspar enjoyed the feeling of her body next to his. He had been surprised to receive the letter from Anastasia offering to help in whatever way she could in delivering the supplies to the soldiers and refugees until he remembered Sofia telling him of her patronage of various almshouses and hospices. Her kindness to those less fortunate that herself was renowned throughout Kislev and, truth be told, Kaspar was not sorry to renew his acquaintance with her again. His run-in with Sasha Kajetan notwithstanding, he was determined to see her again, and this just gave him a convenient excuse. The last two days they had spent together helping to distribute food had been just the tonic he had needed to coax him from his growing frustrations.

‘But once this war is over, I’ll see him swing from the gallows pole in the Königplatz, have no fear of that.’

‘What makes a man turn his back on his country and people to do such a thing?’ wondered Anastasia.

Kaspar shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Ana, I really don’t. And to be honest, I don’t want to know.’

‘Well he deserves the very worst punishment that can be meted out for his crimes. I know we are supposed to be forgiving, and Shallya teaches us to be merciful, but Gerhard might have doomed us all.’

Kaspar did not reply immediately, intently watching a troop of horsemen training on the snowy ground further out on the steppe at the base of the hill. Some sixty or so men on lithe, long-limbed horses circled a series of stakes hammered into a square pattern that roughly equated the width and breadth of a massed unit of ranked up soldiers. Head-sized sandbags were tied to each stake and as Kaspar watched, the horsemen circled and darted in close, loosing deadly volleys of red-fletched arrows into their targets.

Each volley was fired with lethal accuracy, thudding through the sandbags or hammering into the wooden stakes just below them. Any men being attacked by these warriors would be suffering terribly under such a punishing barrage, losing dozens of men with each volley. Each warrior fired a short horned bow of laminated strips of seasoned wood whose power belied its size, while guiding their horses with their knees. Kaspar was amazed at the level of control each warrior exercised over their mounts, the entire troop moving as though with a single will.

At the head of the horse archers, a warrior in a baggy white shirt and scarlet cavalry britches fired with incredible speed and accuracy, his horse obeying his commands as though it were an extension of his own flesh, like the beasts of the dark forest that were rumoured to be part man, part horse. His long topknot trailed behind him and he whooped with a savage glee as he sent shaft after shaft through the sandbag ‘heads’. Twin curved swords were sheathed at his side and Kaspar easily recognised the warrior, Sasha Kajetan.

‘He truly is a magnificent warrior,’ said Kaspar.

‘Sasha? Yes, he is rather formidable, isn’t he? Sweet too, in his own way.’

‘Sweet?’ said Kaspar, raising an eyebrow. ‘Not a word I’d associate with him.’

‘Oh, yes…’ said Anastasia. ‘I heard about that unfortunate altercation outside my home, but you really mustn’t trouble yourself over that. While he does have a hopeless infatuation with me, he wouldn’t dare hurt you.’

‘No? What makes you so sure?’ asked Kaspar.

‘Because he knows it would displease me, and unfortunately, everything Sasha does he does to please me.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure, Ana. When I looked into his eyes, all I saw was the desire to hurt me... or perhaps be hurt. Trust me, it is more than infatuation he harbours for you, Ana.’

‘Well, that’s his own fault. I’ve told him on several occasions that I don’t think of him in that way. Besides, there are others more deserving of my affections, I think.’

Kaspar held the reins loosely in his left hand and felt Anastasia thread her arm through his and hold his wrist. He smiled to himself as he guided the wagon along the rutted roadway that led through the gates of Kislev, enjoying the comfortable silence as Anastasia slid closer to him on the buckboard.

Seeing the white-clad form of Anastasia next to him, the crowds parted before the wagon – her well-known reputation as a friend to the poor ensuring their quick passage along the busy prospekt. There was still a tension on the streets, Kaspar saw, as well there might be. He had heard that the Butcherman had struck again, slaughtering an entire family as they slept within a sheltered alleyway not far from the docks.

The wagon soon ate up the distance between the city gates and the embassy and barely a quarter of an hour had passed before Kaspar tugged on the reins and drove the wagon down the alleyway alongside Ulric’s temple.

As he passed the iron railings and circled the fountain at the centre of the courtyard, he reflected that the tradesmen he had employed had done a fine job in restoring the embassy. The graffiti had been washed away and skilled carpenters had fitted new windows and a sturdy new door.

‘Well, this certainly looks like an improvement,’ noted Anastasia.

‘Aye,’ agreed Kaspar, sourly. ‘So it should be, it’s cost me enough, and not a copper pfennig from Altdorf.’

Even the fountain had been scrubbed, the hidden lustre of the bronze shining through in the cherubic angel’s face as clear water gurgled from its cup. He stepped down from the buckboard and swiftly made his way around to the other side, offering his hand to Anastasia.

She slid over to the side and reached down, ignoring his proffered hand and reaching out to steady herself on his shoulders. She nimbly hopped down to the cobbles and smiled up at him.

‘Shall we?’ she said, entwining her arm in his once more.

Seeing the ambassador approach, a pair of guards marched from the embassy towards the gates.

Kaspar noticed a bundle of red cloth sitting before the gates, obscured from the inside by a decorative motif plate at the gate’s base. As the guards reached the gate, he knelt beside the bundle and prodded it with his gloved hand.

A terrible smell wafted from the bundle as he began unwrapping it.

As the cloth unwrapped like a long scarf, he recognised it as a crimson sash normally worn by Kislevite boyarins. The stench worsened the more he unwrapped the bundle, but he could not stop now.

A perverse fascination compelled him to complete the task.

At last the contents of the sash lay revealed on the cobbles.

He heard Anastasia scream.

And looked down at a collection of four human hearts.

II

The Lubjanko Hospital had been constructed over two hundred years ago against the eastern wall of the city by Tzar Alexis after the Great War against Chaos. Too many men had died needlessly of their wounds following the battles and Alexis had been determined that Kislev would boast the finest facility for the treatment of injuries in all the Old World.

Upon its completion, the priestesses of Shallya had blessed its walls and, for a time, the Lubjanko had indeed served to house those wounded and traumatised by the horrors of war. But before long it had become a dumping ground for the sick, the deranged and the crippled. Entire floors were dedicated to the process of dying, where those too badly injured to live, whether struck down by axe or age, were left to rot away the last miserable hours of their lives.

Rightly it is said that misery loves company and the Lubjanko became a magnet for all manner of the dispossessed. Orphans, homeless, the diseased and the mad came to rest within its walls, and its black stone façade and high, spike-topped walls served as a grim reminder of the fate of those who had fallen between the cracks. Mothers would quiet unruly children by promising to cast them within its brooding, nightmare walls and injured soldiers would pray to the gods to be spared the Lubjanko.

Nightly would the wails of the damned echo from its narrow, barred windows and death stalked its halls like a predator, claiming its nightly toll that would then be taken to the pyres.

Two men made their way along a cold stone corridor, its length dimly illuminated by a dripping torch carried by a limping man whose bulk almost filled the width of the passage. He coughed and spat a phlegmy wad onto the floor, the sound swallowed by the weeping and howling that echoed from the cells to either side of them.

Following behind at a careful distance, Pjotr Losov walked gingerly along the centre of the passageway, his hooded cloak dragging on the dirty flagstones. A trio of rats scurried past him and he chuckled to himself, watching as they sniffed around the first man’s wad of spittle.

Grimy, wasted hands reached from between the bars of the cell doors, piteous moans, curses and bodily fluids following close behind. The limping man smashed a bronze-tipped cudgel against those cell doors whose inhabitants thrashed and screamed the loudest.

‘Be silent, you filth!’ he yelled.

‘They are loud tonight, Dimitrji,’ observed Losov.

‘That they are,’ snarled the other man, hammering his cudgel against the bars of another cell. ‘It always gets like this as winter comes. I think they sense the darkness and what it hides.’

‘Unusually poetic for you, Dimitrji,’ said Losov.

Dimitrji shrugged. ‘These are unusual times, my friend, but not to worry, I have a clutch of pretties that I think you’ll like. Young. Unsullied.’ He licked his lips as he spoke.

Losov loathed this sad excuse for a human being. He had no love for many of his fellow species, but Dimitrji was a particularly loathsome example of all that was diseased about humanity. How he longed to draw his wheel-lock, crafted by the master gunsmith Chazate of the eastern kingdoms, and blow Dimitrji’s brains out. These walls had seen many horrors in their time, what would one more matter?

He had never told Dimitrji his true name; the gaoler-warden of the Lubjanko believed he was a filth-monger who preferred his sexual conquests to be younger and more easily dominated than those of the common man. The thought that Dimitrji believed this so readily made him sick to his stomach – that one as initiated as he could belong to such a perverted fraternity.

But it was a convenient fiction to maintain, for the truth was far worse.

He had to physically restrain himself from reaching for his pistol when Dimitrji reached a locked door at the end of the passageway and fished a jangling set of keys from beneath his voluminous robes. The lock clicked open and Dimitrji pushed open the door, standing aside to let Losov enter and handing him the torch as he passed.

Unlike every other cell in the Lubjanko, this one was clean and did not stink of shit, death and desperation. Four small cot-beds lined the walls and on each one sat a young child, two boys and two girls. None were older than five or six years.

They looked up nervously as Losov entered and tried to smile at him as they had been told to. They were frightened, but looked at him hopefully, perhaps seeing in him the chance of escape from this dank hellhole.

Losov felt the blood thunder in his veins as he looked at the children.

Dimitrji had been right. They were all unsullied and were perfect.

They had to be innocents. She would know if they were not.

Only the blood of innocents would be good enough.

III

Kaspar had believed his mood could not have worsened after having found the macabre offering left outside the embassy gates.

He could not have been more wrong; this was just the beginning of one of the worst nights of his life. After calming Anastasia down, they had made their way within the embassy to find Pavel awaiting them in the downstairs hallway.

The big Kislevite looked pensive as he said, ‘Riders from Altdorf upstairs with letters for you. Important ones, I think.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Heavily armed. Tough men. Ridden hard to get here.’

‘I see,’ said Kaspar, gingerly passing the gory bundle to Pavel. ‘Here, hold this.’

Pavel nodded and peeled back a layer of cloth. ‘Ursun’s teeth, these are hearts!’

‘I know,’ said Kaspar, disgustedly as he ascended the newly-carpeted stairs.

Awaiting him within his study were the four riders from Altdorf, their ragged clothes and pinched faces confirming that they had indeed ridden hard for many weeks to get to Kislev. Two knights stood with them and snapped to attention as Kaspar entered.

‘Gentlemen,’ began Kaspar, moving to stand behind his desk. ‘I can see that you have had an arduous journey to get here. Might I offer you some refreshments?’

‘No, thank you, herr ambassador,’ said a burly man with a face like a mountainside who held out a folded piece of parchment sealed with green wax. ‘My name is Pallanz and I bring you letters that come with the greatest urgency. I would see them delivered to you before taking my leave.’

‘As you wish, Herr Pallanz,’ said Kaspar, accepting the letter. He saw that the wax seal was emblazoned with the crest of the Second House of Wilhelm and his unease grew. He broke the seal and unfolded the thick parchment, taking his time in examining the letter’s contents. The script was controlled and angular, and even before he saw the simple signature at the bottom of the letter he knew the handwriting belonged to no less a personage that the Emperor Karl-Franz himself.

Kaspar read the letter twice before letting it slip from his fingers. He slumped into his chair and let the words flow over him, not wanting to believe that they could be true and what it might, nay, would mean for his position here in Kislev.

He barely heard the riders ask for permission to retire and waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the door as the request was repeated.

As the riders left his study, Pavel entered, drying his hands on a linen towel.

Pavel pointed at the letter and said, ‘Is bad?’

‘Is bad,’ nodded Kaspar.

IV

‘Drink the whole lot,’ said Sofia. ‘It won’t do you any good if you don’t.’

‘Damn you, woman!’ snapped Matthias Gerhard. ‘It’s vile! You are trying to poison me, I know it.’

Sofia Valencik held the glass in front of the merchant and said, ‘I assure you, Herr Gerhard, if I had wanted to poison you, then you would already be in no state to complain about it.’

Lamplight glittered through the murky concoction Sofia had mixed together from a multitude of ingredients taken from her canvas satchel. An unhealthy looking remedy, the drink was a leafy liquid that smelled of soured milk. Gerhard sneezed violently and grimaced, but accepted the glass and drained it in a single swallow. He retched and spluttered as he swallowed the herbal medicine, setting the glass down amidst a pile of papers before folding his arms petulantly across his chest.

‘It is galling that a man of my standing should be treated in such a manner,’ he said.

‘You should think yourself lucky, Herr Gerhard,’ replied Sofia. ‘Many a man would have you thrown in the Chekist’s deepest gaol for your crimes. Be thankful that Ambassador von Velten still has need of you and has allowed you to remain in your own home.’

‘Kept in my study all day under constant guard by armed knights and that old viper!’ said the merchant pointing at Stefan, who sat at Gerhard’s fabulous oaken desk behind a wall of leather-bound accounts ledgers. Pince-nez glasses were perched on the end of his nose and a goose-feathered quill darted across a long parchment.

‘If you ask me, Sofia,’ said Stefan, without once looking up from the piles of Gerhard’s ledgers, ‘you should just let him die of fever. He’s certainly earned it.’

‘Be quiet, you old fool,’ said Sofia, stuffing several jars of herbs and poultices into her satchel. ‘The ambassador asked me to make sure this one doesn’t die, and I do not intend to let him down.’

‘I bet you don’t,’ said Stefan, the quill twitching across the parchment.

‘And what exactly is that supposed to mean?’ demanded Sofia, rounding on Stefan.

‘Nothing,’ said Stefan airily, ‘nothing at all.’

‘Good, and I’ll thank you to keep any such insinuations to yourself in future.’

‘I’m just saying that–‘

‘Well don’t,’ she said, as the sound of hammering on the front door came from below.

She turned to Gerhard and asked, ‘Are you expecting guests?’

V

Darkness had fallen by the time Kaspar and Pavel had changed into clothes more fitting for the palace. Rather than riding, as he normally would have, Kaspar consented to be carried in his carriage to the Winter Palace. Four embassy guards, led by Leopold Dietz, clung to the carriage’s running boards and six knights cantered alongside.

The carriage struggled along the crowded streets of the city, pushing its way slowly along the prospekts of Kislev and forcing a path towards the palace hill.

Kaspar sat hunched within, attempting to formulate exactly what he would say to the Tzarina. Assuming that she consented to see him that was, though somehow, he didn’t think that would be an issue this time. He had a sick feeling that the brick walls he had met thus far in his attempts to secure an audience with the Tzarina were about to be smashed down from the other side.

‘Maybe it not be so bad,’ offered Pavel from the seat across from Kaspar. ‘Tzarina not stupid, she know Alexander a waste of space and she not like him anyway.’

‘There’s a difference between not liking your cousin and not caring when he’s killed in a foreign city,’ pointed out Kaspar.

‘Maybe, but it more or less accident.’

‘Can you imagine Karl-Franz turning the other cheek if one of his family was murdered “by accident” in Kislev?’

‘I suppose not,’ said Pavel, folding his arms and looking out the carriage’s window. ‘Is very bad.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Kaspar. ‘It is.’

Pavel’s assessment of the situation could not have been more apt, reflected Kaspar bitterly. The letter from the Emperor had spoken of an ‘unfortunate and most regrettable incident’ that had occurred in one of the less salubrious areas of Altdorf some weeks ago.

Unfortunate and most regrettable did not even begin to cover it.

On a foggy night in Brauzeit, a carriage carrying the Tzarina’s cousin, Alexander, had been travelling along the Luitpoldstrasse towards the Street of a Hundred Taverns when armed bailiffs acting for one of Altdorf’s largest counting houses stopped it outside the notorious Crescent Moon tavern.

An inveterate gambler and infamous libertine, Alexander owed considerable sums to these establishments and their agents were in no mood to listen to his pleas for clemency, hurling him into the nearest debtor’s prison.

Upon the morn, when those in power awoke to the previous night’s events, there was considerable embarrassment at such a breach of protocol. However, embarrassment was to turn to horror when Alexander’s gaolers opened his cell door and found him violated and murdered by his fellow prisoners.

Kaspar could barely imagine the Ice Queen’s fury at such ignominy done to her family and the thought of appearing before her in such a frame of mind dumped hot fear into his gut. He would rather confront an army of rampaging greenskins than face the powerful wrath of the enraged sorcereress.

He rested his elbow on the lip of the carriage window and propped his chin on his palm, staring out into the darkness as it emerged into Geroyev Square. Thousands of those people who had been fortunate enough to gain entry to the city before the gates had been shut were camped here, their cookfires burning throughout its length and breadth, and a ragged city of canvas filling the once-spacious square.

‘Sigmar’s hammer,’ cursed Kaspar softly. ‘It will be the devil’s own task feeding this many when the armies of the north come.’

‘Aye,’ nodded Pavel. ‘How long, you think?’

‘As soon as the first snows break,’ said Kaspar. ‘Late Nachexen, early Jahrdrung at the latest I should imagine.’

‘Not long.’

‘No.’

The first inkling of trouble came when one of the Knights Panther ordered a knot of people to make way before the ambassador of the Empire. Shouts of abuse and anger were hurled at the coach and Pavel leaned over to look out of the carriage’s window.

‘Must go faster…’ said Pavel.

‘What?’ asked Kaspar, shaken from his misery-filled reverie.

‘Must go faster,’ repeated Pavel, pointing through the window.

Kaspar looked outside and saw hundreds of angry faces surrounding the coach, pressing in around the knights and hurling abuse at them. None dared approach them too closely, but Kaspar could see the mood was ugly.

‘What are they doing?’ said Kaspar, ‘And what are they shouting?’

‘They know about Alexander,’ said Pavel in alarm. ‘Not happy about it.’

The yells of the crowd grew louder and the motion of the carriage slowed yet further as more and more angry people pressed in around them. Kaspar now questioned the wisdom of travelling through the city in a carriage liveried with his own personal heraldry and that of the Empire. His knights yelled at the Kislevites to stand back, and even though their words were not understood, their meaning was plain from the way they jabbed their lance butts into the faces of those who got too close to the carriage.

Kaspar saw that they were less than a hundred yards from the palace gates, and there were a score of bronze armoured knights on snorting chargers sitting immobile before the massive building.

Why didn’t they advance, wondered Kaspar? Surely they must see that they were in need of assistance?

Then he realised that the knights had probably been ordered not to intervene.

Wood splintered as a cobble torn up from the ground smashed into the carriage.

Kaspar flinched as more missiles rained down on the carriage, thudding against the woodwork and smashing the glass into lethal slivers. Cries of pain and alarm came from his guards on the running boards.

And the crowd surged forwards in anger.

VI

The door splintered under his assault, slamming back on its hinges and cracking the plastered wall behind it. He leapt through the doorway, scenting his prey from the upper levels of the townhouse. The inside of the dwelling was well appointed, obviously that of a wealthy man, though he had no idea of his name.

He had woken with a face burning in his mind, the early darkness of evening dispelled in the flood of anger and hate that surged through his veins at this latest feast set before him. He neither knew nor cared how these visions came to him to unleash his trueself; that they came and released him from the hellish servitude behind the mask of the beaten and abused otherself.

His trueself would not have suffered the abuse heaped upon the otherself. Had it not in fact ended it?

She had seen beyond the snivelling boy He had made him and awakened his trueself to its full potential. How he had laughed and wept the day he had ended the otherself’s suffering, hacking Him into bloody pieces with the axe before setting down to devour the chunks of meat straight from the bone.

Only for her could he have done and continue to do such things.

The hallway was dark and he could see two armoured figures making their way down the stairs towards him, swords raised before them. Knights with panther pelts draped across their shoulder guards stood between him and his prey and that could not be allowed to happen.

Even through their enclosed helms, he could sense their disgust at his naked form and the dead skin mask he wore. How little they understood of him. One of the knights shouted something at him and he saw three figures sprint across the landing above. The scent of prey filled his senses and he roared in fury.

The first knight lunged, swinging his sword towards his midriff, but he rolled beneath the blow, dragging his knife from his flesh and thrusting it through the gap between the cuissart and tace of the knight’s armour. The man screamed shrilly as the narrow blade split the links of his mail skirt and sheathed itself in his thigh. A twist of the wrist severed the main artery and he spun to his feet as the warrior fell, blood spraying from the wound.

The other knight stepped towards him and hammered his sword down, but he was no longer there, vaulting backwards over the slashing blade. He landed lightly, pivoting on one leg and thundering his bare foot into the side of the knight’s thigh. Metal crumpled under the tremendous force of the blow and he heard the crack of his opponent’s thighbone shattering.

The man roared in pain and collapsed. Even before the knight hit the ground, he was sprinting upstairs, taking them three at a time. He leapt to the landing, heading in the direction his prey had taken and smashing through every door between him and his goal.

He was close and shoulder charged the next door, entering a sumptuously appointed bedroom. A thick-timbered four-poster bed, draped in red and gold silks, dominated the room, but he paid it no mind as he saw the three people before him.

He saw their faces twist in terror as he stood before them in all his naked glory.

Their terror of him filled the air with a succulent tang and he laughed.

Then he saw her.

And his world turned upside down.

VII

‘Drive!’ shouted Kaspar through the smashed carriage window.

He heard the crack of a whip, but the carriage could make little headway through the crowd pressed tightly around it. Angry shouts and yells filled the air and Kaspar could hear cries of pain mingled with those of rage as his guards and knights fought to defend him.

He saw that the knights had discarded their lances as too cumbersome to use in such close quarters and had drawn their swords. ‘No!’ yelled Kaspar. ‘No killing.’

He had no way of knowing whether the knights had heard him until he saw that they were setting about themselves with the flats of their blades and pommels.

The embassy guards, still clinging to the carriage’s running boards, lashed out with iron-shod boots, breaking limbs and fending off those members of the crowd who got too close to the carriage doors. More cobbles and other missiles rained down on the carriage and Kaspar knew it would not be long before they were totally overrun.

‘Damn it, why don’t those damned Kislevite knights sally out?’ bellowed Kaspar, punching a yelling man’s face as he attempted to climb inside the carriage.

‘Ice Queen teach us lesson I think,’ ventured Pavel, snapping a wrist that reached inside the broken window. There was a scream and the limb was hastily withdrawn.

The Knights Panther circled the carriage, smashing the flats of their blades down into the crowd as their horses stamped with their forelegs and drew sparks from the cobbles. The powerful shoulders of the giant warhorses stood taller than most of the people in the crowd and their great size was as much a deterrent as their lashing hooves.

But there was only so much the knights could do without resorting to lethal force and soon they were surrounded by the angry mob that struck at them with improvised clubs, rocks or whatever came to hand. None of these makeshift weapons stood any chance of penetrating the plate armour of the knights, but as the number of blows increased, they were eventually overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers.

One was dragged from his horse and the mob descended upon him, raining blows down upon his helmet until blood leaked from his gorget and stained the cobbles. Another knight’s horse screamed in pain as some enterprising attacker managed to get behind it and slash the beast’s hamstrings. It crashed to the ground, spilling its rider who, miraculously, was able to roll to his feet. He had lost his sword in the fall, but punched out with mailed gauntlets.

Kaspar kicked and punched as the crowd pushed their way in through the doors of his carriage. Pavel kept them at bay from the other door, but it was only a matter of time until they were dragged outside. Kaspar raged at the crowd’s mob mentality and cursed the fact that his ambassadorship was likely to end on such a sour note; torn to pieces by the very people he was here to help.

Wood splintered as the crowd punched through the thin timbers of the carriage and began tearing through the walls.

‘Pavel!’ shouted Kaspar.

‘I see!’

A screaming man lunged inside, spittle flying from his lips as he reached for Kaspar. His punch was hampered by the close confines of the carriage and Kaspar was able to roll with the blow. He felt the skin break on his cheek and grabbed the man by the front of his ragged, peasant’s tunic, lowering his head and hammering his forehead into the man’s face.

The man screamed, bone broke and blood burst from his nose as he tumbled backwards.

A hand reached in and hauled him backwards as others pinned his arms by his side.

‘Damn you!’ he bellowed as he was struck on the side of the head. Fists and booted feet hammered his side and he felt himself being dragged outside. He thumped down onto the cobbles of the square, catching sight of Pavel on the other side of the coach as he landed. He covered his head with his arms and drew his legs up as blows continued to rain down on him.

Screams and noise filled the air, but even in the confusion, Kaspar could sense a different tenor to them. The people attacking him scattered, running as though the very daemons of Chaos were hot on their heels. He rolled onto his side, wincing as he felt a sharp pain in his ribs, and crawled across the slushy ground to take refuge beneath the smashed remains of his carriage.

Pavel joined him, his face a mask of blood where a kick had opened the skin above his left eye.

‘Bastards wait until now…’ observed the big Kislevite.

‘What?’ asked Kaspar, still breathless and dazed.

‘There,’ said Pavel, pointing to where a score of bronze-armoured knights rode through the crowd, their swords cutting a path through the mob towards them. Their breastplates were emblazoned with a silver bear and their helms were crowned with long-fanged skulls.

They herded the crowd away from the carriage, offering no quarter to anyone who didn’t get out of the way quickly enough. Blood stained the cobbles as their swords chopped a path towards them. The six Knights Panther, one helmetless and supported by two of his brethren, formed a line of battle between these armoured giants and the ambassador. The embassy guards stumbled to join them and, seeing from their tattered uniforms and battered appearance that they too had fought tooth and nail with the enraged crowd, Kaspar’s heart swelled with pride.

The Kislevite knights reined in their steeds before the Knights Panther, who raised their swords and stood ready to use them.

The lead knight sheathed his bloody blade and said, ‘Ambassador von Velten, Ice Queen will see you now.’

Kaspar crawled out from beneath the carriage and pulled himself to his feet using the broken carriage wheel. His knee cracked painfully, and he wiped himself down as best he could, straightening his torn tunic and britches before addressing the knight. He fought to keep his voice even.

‘Very well, if this is how she wants to play it, so be it.’

Surrounded by his battered entourage, Kaspar followed the knights through the gates of the Winter Palace.

VIII

The halls of the Ice Queen had not changed since he had last stood here. The walls of ice still glittered magnificently, the high ceiling’s mosaic was still as impressive and the air was still as chill as he remembered. But rather than coming as a reluctant guest, this time he was here as an apologist. The bile rose in his throat at the thought of abasing himself before this haughty woman who had, to his mind, nearly gotten them all killed. As it was, one of his knights had a cracked skull and would likely not see active duty for many weeks. The embassy guards had broken limbs and severe cuts and bruises, and both he and Pavel would be badly bruised for some time to come as well.

Pavel dabbed a cold cloth on his forehead, cleaning the blood from his face as best he could while Kaspar made another futile attempt to make himself look more presentable and less like a filthy peasant.

He had hoped they would have been given time to clean up properly, but it appeared the Ice Queen was not to allow them that luxury either. As soon as they had entered the palace, a harried looking Pjotr Losov had rushed out to meet them, his face lined with concern.

‘Ambassador von Velten!’ he gushed. ‘What times we live in when a man of your standing can be attacked by the mob. It shall not go unpunished I assure you.’

‘It wouldn’t have happened at all if your damn knights had come to our aid sooner,’ snapped Kaspar, his patience worn thin.

‘I know, I know, I cannot apologise enough, herr ambassador,’ nodded Losov, ‘but the palace knights have very specific orders that do not allow them to abandon their posts without express permission from their commander. Unfortunately, it took me some time to locate him.’

‘How inconvenient…’ said Pavel.

‘Indeed so,’ smiled Losov, oblivious to or, more likely, ignoring Pavel’s sarcasm.

‘Some of my men are badly hurt,’ said Kaspar. ‘They will need water and bandages.’

‘I will see to it immediately,’ assured Losov, snapping his fingers and barking orders at a blue-liveried servant.

‘Your men will be attended to now, herr ambassador, but I’m afraid I must insist that you follow me to the South Hall immediately. The Tzarina awaits your pleasure, and she will not like to be kept waiting any longer than she has already.’

The Tzarina’s chief advisor had led them through the main vestibule and up the garland-wreathed staircase they had ascended on their last visit to the palace, though it felt rather less grand than before.

All through the journey, Kaspar had fought for control. The Ice Queen, through Losov, was berating them for keeping her waiting! Damn her, but she was testing his patience.

They had entered the main hall where the dancing had taken place during his previous audience and, despite himself, he found himself craning his neck upwards to stare in wonder at the majesty of the Winter Palace.

He caught himself and returned his gaze to the double doors at the end of the hall, understanding the subtlety of the Ice Queen in choosing to hold her audiences in this place, where the incredible display of her sorcererous powers were so obviously demonstrated.

The clock above the doors chimed and they were thrown wide open as the Ice Queen entered the room, together with her bloated retinue of flunkies, favourites, aides, scribes and hangers-on. She was as magnificent as Kaspar remembered, and he could feel the temperature of the hall drop sharply as she neared. Dressed in a long, ivory gown sewn with pearls and shards of ice, she seemed to glide across the floor. Her hair was worn loosely about her shoulders, its hue more icy and cold than Kaspar had remembered it, secured about her forehead by clips of coloured ice. Kaspar saw that once again she was armed with the ancient blade of the Khan Queens, Fearfrost.

Her eyes were like diamonds, hard and sharp, and a painted tear of ice glittered on her cheek.

‘She not look happy,’ commented Pavel.

‘No,’ agreed Kaspar as a trio of burly warriors with bare chests, long topknots and waxed moustaches carried a high backed chair of gold and lapis lazuli and deposited it next to their queen before standing behind her with their powerfully muscled arms crossed.

She sat on the throne, not yet deigning to look in their direction as she arranged her scabbarded sword so that it rested upon her lap.

Kaspar shivered, feeling the waves of icy cold that radiated from the queen and her weapon. Before he could say a single word, the Ice Queen crossed her hands across the translucent scabbard and said, ‘We have been grievously wounded, Ambassador von Velten. One of Kislev’s beloved sons has been taken from us.’

Kaspar knew he had to choose his words carefully and said, ‘Your Majesty, on behalf of the Emperor Karl-Franz, may I offer you my nation’s most sincere apologies and most fervent condolences upon your loss. It is my understanding that Alexander was a credit to your family.’

The corners of the Ice Queen’s mouth twitched as she said, ‘Yes, he was a fine figure of a man and his loss will be felt keenly. Tell me, how is it that he died?’

Kaspar hesitated for the briefest second, realising that to lie would be pointless, but knowing that this was not the time to elaborate upon the sordid details of Alexander’s death. He saw the veiled threat in the Tzarina’s lightly asked question and carefully framed his answer in his head before speaking.

‘He… ah, I am told he was killed by ruffians over a matter of some monies owed.’

‘Monies? How is it that a noble of Kislev could find himself in such a position? My royal cousin was a man of means. More likely, your usurious clerks of Altdorf hounded him to his death over a matter of a few pfennigs.’

‘Your majesty, there is much I do not yet know of the circumstances surrounding Alexander’s passing, I am merely here to offer the Emperor’s condolences and present to you an offer of reparations for your loss.’

‘Reparations?’ snapped the Ice Queen. ‘What manner of “reparations” can salve the loss of one so dear to me as Alexander. He was a saint amongst men, and your damned officious nation no doubt delighted in seeing him humbled so.’

‘I assure you, Majesty, that is not the case,’ said Kaspar evenly.

‘Don’t play games with me, Ambassador von Velten, it is no secret to me how your precious Emperor sees my nation: a vassal state, a convenient buffer between the Empire and the northern barbarian tribes. The deaths of our sons and daughters keep your lands safe. We are nothing more than allies of convenience for you and your people.’

‘Your majesty–’ began Kaspar, but the Ice Queen was not done yet.

‘Every year the tribes of the north raid and plunder our lands, killing hundreds of my people. We bleed for this land and each time we drive them back to their wasteland homes. And what thanks do we get for this great sacrifice?’

Kaspar clenched his fists as the Ice Queen berated him. He couldn’t believe she had the gall to suggest such things. Were not men of the Empire dying even now to defend her wretched land? As the Ice Queen berated him further, Kaspar could feel his temper, already frayed by the violence unleashed in Geroyev Square, threatening to get the better of him.

‘We call upon your Emperor for aid, but only when you believe your own lands are threatened do you send any warriors.’

‘Damn you, woman,’ barked Kaspar, his patience finally at an end. He stepped forward, the Tzarina’s guards stepping from behind her throne to intercept the enraged Empire general.

‘Kaspar, no…’ began Pavel, but it was too late.

‘How dare you say such things,’ shouted Kaspar. ‘My countrymen are dying here and now in your miserable country to keep us safe. You know as well as I that our nations have always fought side by side against the tribes of Chaos. Thousands of the Emperor’s soldiers are camped outside your walls right now, cold and hungry, but ready to stand before our enemies no matter what. I will not stand to hear these insults heaped on the heads of men of such courage. And if you don’t like that, then you can go to hell… your majesty.’

Stunned silence greeted Kaspar’s outburst.

Pjotr Losov’s face had turned paler than the Ice Queen and her army of flunkies could not have looked more astonished if he had sprouted wings and taken to the air.

Behind him he heard Pavel whisper, ‘Ursun save us, Ursun save us…’

The silence stretched and Kaspar felt his anger drain from him as the realisation of what he had just said and to whom he had just said it finally penetrated the fog of his anger.

He looked into the cold, unforgiving eyes of the Ice Queen of Kislev and waited for her to turn him into a frozen statue. Slowly, and with great deliberation, she stood and walked towards him.

She halted before him and leaned forward until the chill of her nearness was almost too much to bear.

The Ice Queen smiled and whispered, ‘Very good, Herr von Velten.’

‘What?’ blurted Kaspar, amazed that he was still alive.

‘Walk with me,’ she said, linking her burningly cold arm with his and leading him back through to the main stairs, leaving scores of bemused and astonished people behind them. Pjotr Losov tried to follow, but with a single raised hand, the Ice Queen stopped him.

Kaspar passed Pavel, who merely shrugged and rolled his eyes.

He and the Ice Queen walked in silence from the hall until they were out of earshot of those left behind in the hall. The Ice Queen stopped before the gigantic portrait of her father, Radii Bokha, sat astride the monstrous bear, Urskin. She stared up at the portrait and to Kaspar, it seemed as though her expression softened.

‘Why aren’t you freezing the blood in my veins?’ asked Kaspar eventually.

The Ice Queen chuckled. ‘As I am sure you know, Alexander was a waster and there are few who will shed tears over his death, save perhaps his creditors and a string of foolish women carrying his bastard children. Why do you think he was sent to the Empire if not to get him from my sight?’

‘Then why go through that charade back there?’

‘Come now, Herr von Velten, do not play the innocent with me,’ said the Tzarina. ‘I may have detested my cousin, but I must give the appearance of having been grievously wounded by his death.’

‘Well, congratulations. You did an admirable job of making me look like a cantankerous, foul mouthed ruffian,’ groused Kaspar.

The Ice Queen laughed at his obvious discomfort and said, ‘My father was fond of saying that he would never trust a man who was afraid to lose his temper. As a result, his boyarin were an insufferable band of brutes, always brawling, always arguing and always fighting. But they were loyal, honest and true, and never did a greater band of warriors ever fight shoulder to shoulder. That saying stood my father in good stead, so I see no reason not to trust it also, ambassador.’

‘You were trying to make me angry?’

‘Of course.’

‘Why?’

‘I knew your predecessor, Teugenheim,’ explained the Ice Queen. ‘He was a weasel and a coward and only came to Kislev to advance his own career. I know that this is not an attractive posting compared to some, but it is an important one, one that requires a man of a certain temperament. Andreas Teugenheim was not that man, but I believe that you might just be.’

‘A man who loses his temper?’

‘No,’ said the Ice Queen. ‘A man with fire in his heart and the soul of a Kislevite.’

Now it was Kaspar’s turn to laugh. ‘The soul of a Kislevite? I fear I am too much a son of the Empire for that.’

‘You are wrong, Kaspar von Velten. You have fought for Kislev before and you are here in her time of greatest need. The land has called you back here to fight for her and I do not believe you will fail.’

This was too much for Kaspar to take in. ‘The land called me here? No, the Emperor sent me here.’

The Ice Queen shook her head. ‘No. Whether you believe it or not is irrelevant, you answered the call of the land. Of that I am sure. Come the moment, come the man. You were meant to be here and there is much for you yet to do.’

‘Like what?’

‘I have no idea,’ confessed the Ice Queen with a cold smile. ‘That’s for you to find out.’

IX

‘Pavel still not believe we not dead.’

‘I’m not so sure I believe it myself,’ said Kaspar as they rode down the alleyway leading back to the embassy. The bronze-armoured knights had provided them with safe passage through Kislev, the mob that had attacked them earlier vanishing like morning mist before these fearsome warriors. The wounded members of Kaspar’s entourage followed behind in a cushioned wagon, while he rode a fresh horse from the Ice Queen’s stables, a dun gelding that was easily the equal of the beast that had been lost in Geroyev Square.

There had been no sign of his battered coach, its smashed timbers no doubt burning on someone’s fire, its fine fabrics stuffed inside layers of grubby clothing for extra warmth. Kaspar did not mourn its loss; he had never liked travelling in it anyway.

The ride back had been uneventful, but as he handed the reins of his mount to a waiting stable lad, and limped towards the embassy, he could sense that something was wrong from the tense expressions of the guards at the door.

They opened the door for him and he made his way upstairs to his study.

Inside he found Kurt Bremen and the Chekist, Vladimir Pashenko, awaiting him.

Before Pashenko could say anything, Kaspar addressed Bremen. ‘What’s happened?’ he demanded.

‘Something bad,’ warned Bremen.

‘Don’t play games, man, whatever it is, spit it out.’

‘There was an attack on Matthias Gerhard’s home earlier today. One of my knights is dead and another badly wounded,’ said Bremen.

The knight took a deep breath and said, ‘Stefan is dead.’

Kaspar felt his stomach lurch and his face flushed as he felt a heartbreaking grief well up inside him. Stefan. His oldest comrade from the ranks, the man who had taught him everything he had needed to know to survive as a soldier. Dead. It had to be some kind of mistake. Stefan was too stubborn to be dead.

But as he saw Bremen’s solemn face he knew there was no mistake. It was true.

‘What about Sofia?’ he asked, desperately afraid for her, but afraid of the answer even more. ‘What about Sofia, damn it?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Bremen slowly.

‘What the hell do you mean, “You don’t know”?’

‘I mean that there’s no sign of her or Matthias Gerhard. They’re both gone.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

I

Kaspar knelt beside the blood-spattered bed, twisting the fabric of its red and gold silk sheets in frustration and grief. Broken glass lay strewn about the floor of Matthias Gerhard’s bedroom and several pieces of furniture had been overturned and smashed to matchwood. A grand mirror in its carved mahogany frame lay in splinters, each jagged, reflective shard throwing back the faces of the men that gathered in this abattoir and multiple images of the words written in blood upon the walls.

Blood coated almost every surface, the floor, the walls and even the ceiling.

Kaspar looked up at the daubings on the wall opposite the bed. The bloody words had been written in a childlike hand in halting, grammatically incorrect Reikspiel, and Kaspar knew the macabre graffiti must have been written while Stefan lay dying.

It read: ‘It all was her for.’

Stefan had died in this room and Sofia had been… what? Abducted? Killed?

The fear of what Sofia might even now be suffering was a physical pain in Kaspar’s chest and, while they had only known each other a few months, they had slipped easily into the familiarity of old friends, and the thought of her in pain scared him more than he imagined possible.

Vladimir Pashenko pointed to a huge plum-coloured stain on the expensive carpeting next to Kurt Bremen, its fabric now matted and stinking with blood.

‘That is where we found your manservant. It would appear that he died from a single wound to the throat that severed the main artery in his neck.’

‘His name was Stefan,’ growled Kaspar.

‘Indeed,’ continued Pashenko. ‘Whoever killed him used an exceptionally sharp blade and knew exactly where to strike.’

‘Or took them by surprise, which seems unlikely given that the door to the house has been broken down and my knights had made their way downstairs to fight the bastard,’ said Kurt Bremen, furious at having two of his warriors defeated with such apparent ease. One knight lay beneath a shroud in the temple of Morr, while the other would probably lose his leg below the knee.

‘The wound in his neck is the only injury that was done to the victim,’ went on Pashenko, reading from a black leather notebook. ‘There were no defensive wounds.’

‘Defensive wounds?’ asked Kaspar, pulling himself to his feet.

‘Yes, when someone is being attacked by a person armed with a knife, they typically raise their hands in front of them to ward off the blows, and they are often found missing fingers or with their forearms slashed to ribbons.’

‘But Stefan had none of these?’ asked Kaspar.

Pashenko checked his notes. ‘No, none at all.’

‘Do you have any idea why that might be?’

Pashenko shrugged. ‘I do not know. Perhaps the killer was so swift in his attack that his victim had no chance to defend himself.’

Kaspar nodded. ‘Have you found anything else that might help you catch this bastard?’

‘Not a great deal,’ admitted Pashenko.

‘But surely someone must have seen something?’ said Bremen.

Pashenko shook his head. ‘The attack happened in darkness and those few souls who would be abroad at that time are not the sort to come forward and talk to me. Though as soon as your knight is able, I shall of course speak to him. He may be the only person in Kislev who has seen the Butcherman and lived.

‘However, we did find some tracks leading both to and from Gerhard’s stables. Two of the horses from his troika are missing, so I can only assume that the killer made his escape on one and transported his captives on the other.’

Kaspar paced the room, stopping before the dripping words painted on the wall. ‘And what in the name of Sigmar does this mean? “It all was her for.” Who is “her”? Have you seen anything like this at previous Butcherman killings?’

‘No,’ said Pashenko, pointedly. ‘Only since you arrived in Kislev has the killer been leaving trophies or messages.’

‘And what does that mean?’

‘I do not know for certain, but I believe the killer is trying to tell you something.’

‘Tell me something? What?’

‘Again, I do not know,’ said Pashenko, ‘but taken together with the hearts left outside the embassy, I believe this message was intended for you. For whatever reason, the Butcherman has fixated on you, Ambassador von Velten.’

II

Her first sensation was pain. Then grief. Then terror.

Sofia kept her breathing even and her eyes shut. She could feel that she was seated on a heavy wooden chair, her hands securely bound behind her to the uprights and her wrists chafed bloody by the rough cord. She couldn’t tell if there was anyone in the same room as her, so she continued to give the appearance of unconsciousness while she attempted to collect her terrified thoughts. She was cold, but felt that she wasn’t outside. Wherever she was smelled bad and she had worked in enough field hospitals to recognise the stench of rotten flesh and blood. She suppressed a disgusted retch as the pain in her head returned with a vengeance.

Tears leaked from beneath her eyelids as she remembered the lightning flash of the knife that had ended Stefan’s life, the gouting spray of arterial blood and the look of apology in his eyes as he fell.

A single word entered her head… Butcherman.

Gerhard’s screams still echoed in her head and she found she could not remember what had happened after that, save an anguished cry that had preceded a blow to her temple.

‘You might as well open your eyes,’ said a man’s voice. ‘I know you are awake.’

Sofia sobbed, all self-control lost as she felt her captor’s hand slide under her jaw and lift her head.

‘I am sorry I hit you,’ he said. ‘I just didn’t expect to see you there. I thought that you were dead.’

Sofia twisted her head from his grip. ‘Please don’t hurt me, please, please…’

‘Shhhh… I’m not going to hurt you, matka,’ said the voice. ‘How could you think such a thing? After all you did for me. You kept me safe, comforted me, loved me and prepared me for the day when we could finally be rid of Him. How could I hurt you? I love you, I’ve always loved you.’

Sofia wept softly as he ran his hands through her auburn locks and she felt his nearness. She heard an intake of breath and realised he was smelling her hair.

‘Please,’ she begged. ‘Whatever you want, just don’t kill me.’

‘Kill you?’ laughed the voice. ‘Don’t you remember? You’re already dead, but I kept a piece of you.’

She twisted her head away from the Butcherman as she felt his face press against hers and a moist tongue lick her cheek. His skin felt leathery and hard.

‘Why do you pull away?’ he asked.

‘Because you frighten me,’ said Sofia.

‘But it’s me,’ he said, hurt. ‘Your little boy, your precious warrior. Look at me.’

‘Please, no,’ wept Sofia, keeping her eyes screwed shut.

‘I said look at me!’ her captor bellowed, slapping her hard across the jaw. Sofia felt blood in her mouth and a weight drop across her thighs as he fell against her, wailing in anguish.

‘I’m sorry!’ he sobbed. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean… I would never! Please don’t make me hurt you! Don’t make me hurt you again. You don’t want that.’

She felt him push himself upright to stand before her, and instinctively lashed out with her foot. But he was too quick, and her blow missed its target.

‘I told you to open your eyes,’ he said, his earlier distress gone. ‘I’ll cut your eyelids off if you don’t.’

Her eyes filled with tears of pain, Sofia obeyed his command.

Naked, the Butcherman stood before her, his flesh slathered in blood, manic eyes staring from behind a mask of crudely stitched skin, a mask of dead human skin. It had obviously once belonged to a man, but the ragged skin was decades dead, preserved and stitched into this grotesque façade. A long, thin bladed knife was sheathed in a cut of flesh on his muscled abdomen.

Behind him, twisting gently on a butcher’s hook suspended from the central beam of the roof, was the flayed body of Matthias Gerhard. His face, the only piece of skin his killer had left him was fixed in an expression of eternal agony.

Sofia screamed.

She screamed and screamed until he pressed his dead-fleshed face against hers and kissed her furiously while embracing her tightly to his naked body.

III

‘You mustn’t fret, Kaspar. We’ll get her back,’ said Anastasia, holding his hand in hers while massaging the back of his neck with her free hand. They sat in the embassy courtyard, where Kaspar had sparred with Valdhaas and where Sofia had stitched his wounded shoulder. Anastasia wore a crimson gown, edged with silver fur, and had come to the embassy immediately upon hearing of the attack at Matthias Gerhard’s. Two days had passed since that awful night and she had come to the embassy each day, bringing hopeful sentiments and the solace of a friend. The bright, cold light of morning made her skin shimmer and Kaspar was grateful for her words of comfort, even though enough time had passed to give them a hollow edge.

‘Pashenko thinks she is already dead,’ said Kaspar, finally giving voice to the thought that had plagued him these last two days and kept him from sleep. The Chekist and the Knights Panther had been searching for Sofia and Gerhard, but in such a packed city, the odds of stumbling across them were astronomical. The knight wounded in the attack on Gerhard’s house was unable to shed any useful information on the killer; merely that he was able to easily best them in combat and fought naked.

The only thing that gave Kaspar a glimmer of hope was the fact that they had found no bodies and that there had been no more grisly offerings left for him.

‘No, you can’t think like that,’ said Anastasia. ‘Surely if this madman were going to kill her and Gerhard, he would have done it already. At the same time he… he killed Stefan.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Kaspar unconvinced.

‘Have the Chekist managed to come up with any idea of what actually happened yet?’

Kaspar sneered. ‘No. That fool Pashenko will happily find a convenient scapegoat soon enough, but he knows nothing.’

Anastasia sighed. ‘And he has no idea why or where Sofia and Gerhard were taken?’

‘If he does, he’s not saying.’

Anastasia nodded, chewing her bottom lip as though wrestling with a thorny ethical dilemma. Kaspar caught the look and said, ‘What is it?’

‘Well, it’s… it’s that I know you are fond of Sofia,’ said Anastasia hesitantly.

‘What does that mean?’

‘How much do you really know about her?’

‘Enough to know that she’s a good person and that I trust her.’

‘That’s what I mean. You trust her, but you don’t really know her, do you? I know that she used to work for Vassily Chekatilo before she came to work for you.’

‘You’re joking,’ said Kaspar, incredulous.

‘I wish I was, Kaspar, but I’m led to believe she worked for him for several years.’

‘What are you trying to suggest?’

‘Chekatilo is not a man you can just walk away from,’ said Anastasia. ‘I know. I’m saying that perhaps the Butcherman has not kidnapped Sofia at all. I’m saying that perhaps Chekatilo forcibly took her back himself.’

IV

Time blurred; her only connection to the outside world a smeared skylight that allowed only the most fitful light to enter. Sofia didn’t know how many days had passed since her abduction, only that her pain increased with every moment and that there was a growing realisation that she would, in all likelihood, die in this stinking attic.

She wept tears of bitterness and frustration, her sobs muffled by the blood-stiffened rag stuffed in her mouth and tied in place with a broad leather strap. Her wrists throbbed dully; she could no longer feel her fingertips and even the slightest movement brought fiery agony as the crusted blood split and the rough cord dug further into the meat of her arms.

The days passed. Some as pain-filled boredom, others as unrelenting horror as he would climb into the attic, the dead skin mask stretched tight across his features. On many of those occasions, he would touch her, whisper to her that he loved her or that he had followed her orders and killed again for her, that he had eaten human flesh in honour of their day of liberation from his tyranny.

Her eyes were gummed with lack of sleep and tears, her vision blurred with malnutrition and her lips cracked with dehydration. Her mouth felt sticky and her head rolled slackly on her shoulders as she heard the hateful creak of the trapdoor that led into the attic as it opened on rusted hinges.

‘Are you there, matka?’ he said. Then he laughed. ‘Of course you are. Where could you go?’

She squeezed her eyes shut as she heard his footfalls approach and he laid a callused hand on her shoulder. She smelled his nearness and though she tried to be strong, could not help shuddering in naked fear. She felt his hands move across her body and felt him press himself against her.

He moaned and said, ‘I am almost done, yes?’

Sofia could not answer, the gag choking any words she might have given voice to. But then she understood that he was not speaking to her at all. She hadn’t heard anyone else enter the attic, but another voice, a distant, melodic voice answered, sounding as though it came from the bottom of a very deep well.

‘Very nearly, my handsome prince, very nearly. I have just one thing left for you to do. One last tiny thing and we will be done.’

‘Anything, matka, anything,’ he said.

‘I want you to kill me,’ said the voice. ‘I was dead once before and I do not belong in this world. Morr claims me for his own and I should not be back in your world.’

‘No!’ he cried. Sofia felt his grip on her body tighten and gave a muffled cry of pain as he roughly turned the chair around so that she was facing him. ‘Why would you ask this of me? I only just found you again, I won’t let you go. Not again.’

‘Trust me, my prince, you must,’ said the soft, teasing voice.

Sofia slitted open her eyes, seeing the loathsome masked face before her. A rippling light cast a soft glow over the preserved features of the corpse-mask, her captor’s violet eyes wide with adoration beneath it. He stared at something over her shoulder, a firefly light glinting in the darkness of his pupils. Her eyes stung, but for the briefest instant it seemed as though the reflection of a bright face, pale and angelic, ghosted across the surface of his eye.

‘I can’t,’ he wailed, throwing his arms around her and burying his head in her lap.

‘Listen to me!’ roared the voice, stripped bare of its earlier grace. ‘Do it. I demand you do it. Kill me, kill me now. Cast off the shackles of your abused otherself and take out your knife, the knife I gave you and cut my throat, you snivelling, pathetic little whoreson. Kill her, cut her into pieces and throw them at von Velten’s feet.’

‘No… I won’t! I love you…’ he wept, his voice trailing off into choking sobs.

Sofia felt the fury of whatever was talking to her captor rise to terrifying heights and shut her eyes once more. Even through her swollen lids, she felt a burning light fill the death attic, but just as quickly as it bloomed, it faded and she sensed that whatever had spoken to the man had departed. Its rage left a crackling, actinic tang of magic in the air, but she felt a tiny flutter of hope at his defiance of its murderous desires. It wanted him to kill her, but, for whatever reason, he believed that she was his matka, his mother, and would not.

‘I can’t kill you…’ he said, as though hearing her thoughts. ‘Not yet, but I have to cut you. Oh, matka, I have to cut you.’

Sofia felt the blade of his knife against her skin and tried to scream as he sliced the thumb from her left hand.

V

The brothel was housed in a nondescript building of sagging black timbers and random blocks of rough-hewn stone that had once been part of the original city wall. Coloured panes of glass in the upper windows and a crimson sash hanging limply from the roof’s finial were the only clue to the building’s purpose and Kaspar could practically smell the stench of desperation that saturated its fabric.

‘This is the place?’ he asked.

‘Aye,’ nodded Pavel. ‘You find Chekatilo here, though why want to, Pavel not know. He not a man you should be in hurry to see. We should not be here, should go now.’

‘He might know something about Sofia’s abduction,’ said Kaspar, his voice as icy as the snow that swirled around him. Pavel and Kurt Bremen exchanged wary glances, neither liking the lethal edge to the ambassador’s voice.

‘Ambassador von Velten,’ said Bremen. ‘If Chekatilo does indeed know something of Sofia’s whereabouts then we must be delicate in our handling of him. You cannot afford to antagonise him.’

‘Don’t worry, Kurt. I can be diplomatic if I need to be,’ assured Kaspar, pushing open the door to the brothel and stepping through into the semi-darkness. The stench of unwashed bodies and cheap perfume filled the air, the latter patently failing to mask the former.

Even in the light that filtered from the few hooded lanterns and low-burning fireplace, Kaspar could see the place was busy. It seemed that imminent war and death brought out the lust in Kislevite men and there were plenty filling the long hall willing to spend their last kopeks for the embrace of women who sold their flesh for coin.

A few heads turned at their entrance, but most were too deep into their labours or lost in the bliss of weirdroot dreams to pay them much mind. A fug of acrid smoke hugged the ceiling, its scent sweet and cloying, like musk from Araby, and Kaspar had a vivid recall of his campaigns fought in that bleak desert landscape.

He marched past the writhing bodies, ignoring the overly theatrical moans and cries of pleasure as he headed for a door at the back of the room, guarded by two cold-eyed men who made no effort to conceal the axes beneath their cloaks.

Kaspar halted before the men, who pointedly ignored him until he made to move past them. One spat a burst of muttered Kislevite at him, pushing his axe free of his cloak.

‘Pavel,’ said Kaspar, ‘translate for me.’

‘Very well,’ grumbled Pavel, tearing his gaze from the copulation taking place all around him and moving to stand beside the ambassador.

‘My name is Kaspar von Velten, and I am here to speak with your master, Vassily Chekatilo. I would be grateful if you were to convey my wishes to him.’

Pavel repeated Kaspar’s words and he watched as the men exchanged an amused look before the man Pavel had addressed shook his head.

‘Nya,’ he said and the meaning was clear.

‘Pavel, tell him that I have a detachment of Knights Panther at my disposal and that if Chekatilo doesn’t consent to see me, then I will have them burn this filthy whorehouse down. With him in it if necessary.’

Again Pavel repeated Kaspar’s words and this time the two men looked distinctly uneasy. A quiet, but heated discussion in rapid snatches of Kislevite ensued, followed by a raised palm and the man who had said no disappearing through the door. The remaining man gave a lopsided grin, exposing yellowed stumps of teeth.

The three men waited for several minutes, Pavel returning his attention to the libidinous activities going on around them and taking several swigs from his hipflask.

At last the door reopened and the messenger reappeared, beckoning with grubby fingers that they should follow him. Kaspar stepped after the man, making his way down a long, timber-floored corridor with velvet-curtained archways along both sides. Grunts and more groans of counterfeit pleasure came from behind them and Kaspar shut them out as they approached a heavy timber door banded with black iron. The man ahead of him drew out a long key and noisily unlocked the door before pushing it wide and indicating that they go through.

‘Yha! You go, Yha?’

‘Yha,’ agreed Kaspar and stepped through into a well-appointed room of spacious dimensions and furnished with Empire-designed furniture and fixtures that Kaspar just knew had come from his embassy. Four women dressed in diaphanous silk gowns lounged around the room in various stages of weirdroot oblivion, their lips stained with narcotic juices. A naked woman danced clumsily before the enormous Chekatilo, who sat on a creaking wooden bench with his back to Kaspar. Standing at his side was a whip-thin man with the face of a fighter who stared at them with undisguised hostility.

Chekatilo clapped in time with the woman’s gyrations and Kaspar could see from her stocky build and frightened, prosaic features that she was of peasant stock, no doubt here to earn a few copper coins to feed her through the winter.

‘Herr Chekatilo,’ said Kaspar.

The big Kislevite did not answer, holding his hand up to indicate that Kaspar must wait until the dance was over. Kaspar bit his bottom lip and folded his arms across his chest. Bremen averted his eyes from the dancing girl and Pavel also had the decency to look away from her shame.

At last Chekatilo clapped and stood, ushering the girl away to retrieve her clothes.

‘Rejak,’ he said, turning to face the flint-eyed killer at his side. ‘Put her to work in main hall, she won’t do for the booths.’

Rejak nodded and led the girl to the door Kaspar and the others had entered through and pushed her into the corridor with a barked order to the guards at its end. He returned to his master’s side, his hand clasped firmly around the hilt of his sword. Kaspar instantly recognised the man for what he was: an assassin and murderer.

At last Chekatilo deigned to face Kaspar and his entourage, his wide and intimidating features masked with a predatory smile. His beard was as huge as Kaspar remembered it and his leather and fur clothing was well cared for and expensive. He sat back down on the bench and said, ‘You wanted to see me?’

‘Yes, I’d like to ask you some questions.’

‘I make it rule never to answer questions I do not have to,’ said Chekatilo.

‘You’ll answer these ones,’ said Kaspar.

‘Really? What makes you so sure?’

‘Because I’ll kill you if you don’t,’ promised Kaspar.

Kurt Bremen flinched at Kaspar’s threat and Chekatilo laughed, a booming peal that startled several of the stupefied women.

‘I think you not know of your master’s plan, knight?’ asked Chekatilo.

Bremen did not answer as Chekatilo continued. ‘Pavel Korovic! Is long time since I see you in here. Do you bring me another Empire ambassador to corrupt?’

Pavel shook his head hurriedly, casting his eyes to the floor when Kaspar glowered at him. Kaspar flushed as Chekatilo laughed once more. ‘You come with questions, but you know nothing of the man you ask them of. And you threaten me in my own chambers? One word from me and you all die. There are dozen men in earshot I can call to kill you where you stand.’

‘Maybe there are, and maybe there aren’t,’ said Kaspar, ‘but could they get to us before I rammed a sword into your gut?’

‘Perhaps not, but there are worse armours than many layers of fat, Empire man. I think you be dead if you try, and you not ready for that yet.’

‘No?’

‘No,’ said Chekatilo. ‘You got things to do before crows feed on you. I see this.’

Kaspar knew he had lost control of this conversation, if indeed he had ever had it in the first place, but he was desperate for something, anything, that might provide a clue as to where Sofia had been taken. And if Anastasia was right about Sofia’s past, then there was every chance this bastard might know something of value.

Kaspar knew that he had come to this confrontation much less prepared than he ought to have been, now understanding that threats were not the way to get the answers he wanted, and so he switched tack.

‘Herr Chekatilo, we are all men of the world here, are we not? We are behaving like animals in the wild, locking horns like stags trying to be the master of the herd. But this is your lair and I realise now that it is pointless to try and assert my authority here,’ said Kaspar, spreading his arms wide in what he fervently hoped was a gesture of gracious magnanimity. ‘I am in need of your help and come to you in desperate need. A good friend of mine has gone missing and I believe you may be in a position to help me find her.’

Chekatilo smiled, immediately reading Kaspar’s gambit. ‘Clever, Empire man, much cleverer than that fool, Teugenheim. He too thought he could be big man in this place. Sadly, he was wrong in all regards.’

‘Then you’ll help?’

‘Perhaps. Who you lost?’

‘My physician. Her name is Sofia Valencik and I am told she used to work for you.’

‘Sofia!’ barked Chekatilo. ‘Ah, yes, I remember Sofia, but no, she never work for me, no matter how much money I offer her. I think she not like me.’

‘I can’t imagine why,’ sneered Bremen.

Kaspar shot the knight a venomous glare as he saw Rejak stiffen, saying, ‘Really? She never worked for you? Are you sure?’

Kaspar felt what little hope he had that this avenue of investigation might yield some result fade. Anastasia had convinced him that Sofia had worked for Chekatilo, and he would take her word over the fat Kislevite’s every time, but his instinct told him that Chekatilo was not lying.

‘You’re sure?’ repeated Kaspar.

Chekatilo scowled. ‘I may be over forty, but memory not failing me yet. No, she never work for me. She came here a few times each year though.’

‘What?’ said Kaspar, horrified. ‘Sofia came here, of her own free will?’

‘Aye,’ confirmed Chekatilo. ‘Of her own free will. She looked after girls who worked the rooms here, gave them poultices for the pox and other such things. Sometimes she birthed or ended children as well. She tried to keep girls healthy.’

The fat crook grinned lasciviously. ‘Not easy task in Kislev. But, no, she never work for me, though I was glad of her services. She was good woman.’

‘Is,’ insisted Kaspar. ‘She is a good woman. And now she’s missing, taken by the Butcherman.’

‘Then she is dead. Cut up and eaten.’

‘I don’t believe that,’ stated Kaspar.

‘No? What make you so sure she alive?’

‘I just am,’ said Kaspar, his voice suddenly fatigued and drained of emotion. ‘Until I see something that proves she’s gone, I’ll keep looking for her.’

‘You in love with her?’ laughed Chekatilo. ‘I not blame you if you are. Sofia Valencik is handsome woman.’

‘No,’ said Kaspar, and Chekatilo smiled at the swiftness of his answer.

‘I see, but why you think I can or will help you find her?’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Kaspar. ‘I came here thinking that maybe you had taken her, but now I don’t believe you have. I don’t know if there is anything you can do to help me, but if there is anything at all, then I beg you to do it.’

Chekatilo considered Kaspar for long seconds before answering.

‘I will help you, Empire man, though Ursun alone knows why. You and I would be enemies I think just now, if not for Sofia. What you offer me if I help you?’

‘All I can offer you is my gratitude,’ said Kaspar.

The giant Kislevite laughed before seeing that Kaspar was serious. ‘Are you man of your word, Kaspar von Velten?’

‘I am,’ nodded Kaspar. ‘My word is iron and once given is never broken.’

‘Kaspar–’ warned Bremen, but the ambassador waved him to silence.

Both men locked eyes before Chekatilo finally nodded and rose from the bench seat. ‘I think that you are, Empire man, just be sure it not the end of you. Very well, I have many eyes and ears around Kislev and if there is anything to know, I will find it for you.’

Chekatilo leaned forwards. ‘But if I do this thing for you…’ he said, letting the sentence trail of meaningfully.

‘I understand,’ said Kaspar, wondering if he really did.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I

In the days following Kaspar’s meeting with Chekatilo, the weather continued to worsen, the sagest of Kislev’s older heads proclaiming that this could be the hardest winter since the time of the Great Tzar, Radii Bokha. Whether this was true or not, Kaspar did not know and didn’t much care, so busy was he with the continued demands of maintaining an army of war during the interminable period when there was no fighting to be done.

As yet more days passed, thoughts of Sofia kept intruding on his dreams as well as his waking thoughts. In a rare show of compassion, Pashenko had personally informed him that his Chekist were now forced to abandon the search for her. As well as the four hearts that had been left outside the embassy, other mutilated bodies had since been discovered and demanded investigation that they might shed some light on the identity of the killer.

Despite Pashenko’s admission of failure, Kaspar refused to give up hope that Sofia might, somehow, still be alive. Upon their return from Chekatilo’s, he had told Anastasia what little they had learned and she had held him close, warning him not to trust the word of such a lowborn criminal. Kaspar wanted to let her convince him, but his earlier gut feeling that Chekatilo was telling the truth kept returning to him.

Anastasia had taken over the job of organising the distribution of supplies to the soldiers and refugees, throwing herself into the task with gusto and displaying a real aptitude for such work, though Kaspar had insisted that she do so from the embassy. He would not lose another to the Butcherman through carelessness.

She had taken the chambers adjacent to Kaspar’s, and on the second night she had come to his bed, slipping easily into his embrace and they had comforted one another in the way of two lonely people needing to shut out the cruelties of the outside world for a time. Their lovemaking was gentle, tentative, each touch and caress a little afraid, and as he lay spent in her arms each night, Kaspar found himself uttering love’s greatest lie: ‘I’ll never leave you.’

She came to him each night and he found himself more and more grateful for her attentions. They would lie together in the darkness, Kaspar telling her of Nuln and his life back in the Empire, and she in turn telling him fantastical tales of the ancient Khan Queens and the magical powers they were said to possess. The nights brought Kaspar closer to Anastasia, and they clung to one another tightly, taking reassurance from the simple act of holding another person near.

‘It will be terrible when they come, won’t it?’ whispered Anastasia.

Kaspar wanted to lie to her, but could not force the words to come. Instead he simply nodded and said, ‘Yes, the northern tribes are a terrible enemy. Hard, brutal men raised on war and bloodshed. They will not be easy to defeat.’

‘But do you think you can defeat them?’

‘Honestly? I do not know. A lot depends on what is happening in the Empire just now. I have heard that the great horde that destroyed Wolfenburg has retreated north for the winter and that Boyarin Kurkosk gathers a pulk in the skirts of the Kislev oblast.’

‘Is that true?’

‘It’s hard to be sure, there are so few runners these days, but it sounds likely. If there are still Kurgan forces in the Empire, then Kurkosk could cut off their retreat and starve them to death.’

‘What will happen if the Kurgans have already marched north?’

‘Then they will meet the boyarin’s army, blade to blade, and from what I have heard of Kurkosk, theirs will be the worst of that encounter.’

Anastasia pulled herself closer and ran her fingers through the silver hair on Kaspar’s chest. ‘Do other pulks gather in the oblast? Surely some of the other boyarins must be trying to amass their soldiers.’

‘It’s possible,’ allowed Kaspar, ‘but the bulk of the Kislevite soldiery are scattered throughout the oblast and steppe in their stanistas for the winter. It will be a devil of a task to gather them before the snows break.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Anastasia, her voice fading as she drifted asleep.

Kaspar smiled indulgently and kissed her forehead before closing his eyes and eventually slipping into an uneasy sleep.

A cold sliver of winter light awoke him hours later and he blinked in its unforgiving brightness. He yawned and smiled to himself as he felt the comfortable warmth of Anastasia’s soft feminine body beside him.

Careful not to wake her, he slipped from the bed and pulled on his robe. Kaspar eased open the door to his study and softly closed it behind him. Once again, he missed the familiar smell of the harsh-brewed tea that Stefan always had prepared for him each morning.

He stood by the window, staring out at the snow-covered roofs of Kislev. At any other time, the scene would have been picturesque, even beautiful, but now all he could think of was the brutal killer out there that had taken Sofia.

Anastasia had tried to prepare him for the worst, gently pressing him to accept that she was gone, but Kaspar resisted the notion stubbornly.

Sofia was somewhere in this hard, northern city. He was sure of it.

II

The water was gloriously cool and Sofia forced herself not to gulp huge quantities of the liquid. She knew well enough that her dehydrated body would rebel at too much water taken too quickly. Her eyes had long since grown accustomed to the gloomy attic and she no longer noticed the stench of rotted meat.

The mutilated body of Gerhard had gone, but his killer had not bothered to clean up the sticky pools that had collected beneath his hanging body and the vermin and carrion creatures had feasted well on the merchant’s leavings.

Her body was a pain-filled mass, the hot agony from where her thumb had been severed then sealed with hot pitch merging with the ache of hunger in her belly and the rope burns on her arms and ankles. Rats had taken bites from her legs and the physician in her wondered about the likelihood of infection. Each time she found herself slipping into unconsciousness, a fiery bite on the flesh of her feet would hurl her back into her waking nightmare.

Her captor stood before her, his mask draped over his face as always, but his manner altogether different than before. Even through her pain, she had noticed that, for the last few days, he had been much less aggressive than usual, as though some better angel of his nature was slowly swimming its way to the surface of his madness.

The clay jug of water he held to her lips was just one indication of the change that had come over him. And before offering her the water he had, bizarrely, roughly brushed her hair with an antique brush of silver and inlaid pearl. It was an expensive item – obviously once the property of a woman of some means – perhaps a trophy taken from a previous victim.

‘Please, some more,’ she croaked as he withdrew the jug.

‘No, I think you’ve had enough for now.’

‘Just a little more…’

He shook his head and put down the jug.

‘I don’t understand, matka,’ he said in a voice not unlike that of a little boy. ‘Why do you want me to kill you? It’s not fair.’

‘Kill me? No, no, no, I don’t want you to kill me,’ begged Sofia.

‘But I heard you,’ he wailed. ‘You said.’

‘No, that wasn’t me, that was something else.’

‘Something else? What?’

‘I… I don’t know, but it wasn’t your matka,’ said Sofia, warming to her theme. ‘I’m your mother. Me. And I want you to untie me.’

‘I don’t understand,’ he said, rubbing the heels of his palms hard into his forehead. He let loose a plaintive moan and slid his knife from the flesh sheath on his stomach, dragging the edge across his forearms and leaving dripping blood trails. He wept as he cut himself.

‘He used to do this to me, you remember?’

Understanding that her life hung by the most slender of threads, Sofia knew she had to play along with whatever internal fantasy was being enacted in his head.

‘I remember,’ she said.

‘He used to burn me with hot embers from the fire,’ he went on, tears running from beneath the stiffened flesh of his mask. ‘He laughed as he did it as well, said I was a snivelling little brat and that he was cursed with me.’

‘You weren’t to blame, he was an evil man,’ said Sofia, keeping her answers neutral and hoping that she would not step outside the boundaries of whatever history he was reliving.

‘Yes, yes he was, so why did you stay with him? I watched him beat you unconscious with the flat of a sword once. He made me violate you time and time again and you did nothing. Why? Why did it take you so long to help me?’

Sofia struggled for an answer, eventually blurting, ‘Because I was afraid of what he would do to us if I resisted.’

He dropped his knife and knelt before her, resting his head on her lap. ‘I understand,’ he said softly. ‘You had to wait until I was strong enough to stand up to him. To kill him.’

‘Yes, to kill him.’

‘And I’ve killed him ever since. It was all for you,’ he said proudly.

‘Killed who?’ said Sofia, and stifled a gasp as she realised the danger inherent in what she had just asked.

But he seemed oblivious to her slip from character and said, ‘My father, the boyarin.’

He reached up and ran his fingers down the leathery mask, his words dripping with barely suppressed rage. ‘That’s why I wear his face; so that every time I see its reflection I see the man I must kill. I killed him once for you, and I’ll keep killing him until we’re safe, matka. Both of us.’

Sofia felt his chest heave with the effort of confession, but pressed onwards, knowing she would never get a better chance to perhaps direct his lunacy.

‘But we are safe now, my brave son. I know you have suffered terribly, but we can be safe, you just have to help me do one thing.’

He lifted his head and stared, pleadingly into her eyes. ‘What? Tell me what I have to do.’

‘Untie me and let me go to Ambassador von Velten, he can help us,’ said Sofia.

He shuddered and she felt him go rigid, as though in the opening throes of a seizure. His head snapped up and he pushed himself to his feet, snatching his knife up from the floor.

‘Don’t!’ he roared, jabbing the knife against her belly. ‘Don’t try and trick me.’

Sofia cried as the tip of the blade drew blood. ‘I’m not trying to trick you. I just want us to be safe, I just want us to live.’

‘I… that’s… I mean, so do…’ he mumbled, dropping the knife again.

He gnashed his teeth and took great strides around the attic, punching the timber roof supports and bloodying his knuckles.

Eventually he stopped his pacing and stood before her, his chest heaving.

‘I love you,’ he snarled, ‘but I might have to kill you now.’

‘No, please…’

He bent to pick up the knife, his hand instead closing on the handle of the antique hairbrush. He raised it before him with difficulty, as though some inner part of him resisted, and held it close to his face. He gave a strangled laugh of release as he smelled the scent of her hairs that had caught on its bristles.

‘Ambassador von Velten can help us?’ he said in his little boy’s voice.

‘Yes,’ nodded Sofia, through a mist of tears. ‘The ambassador can help us.’

III

Kaspar dragged the wire brush through his horse’s silver mane, smoothing it to a gleaming fringe that spilled over its powerful shoulders. The animal stamped the ground, its breath misting in the cold air and its tail whipping its rump for warmth.

‘Steady there,’ whispered Kaspar, rubbing his hand across the horse’s flanks, feeling the thick muscles bunching beneath its skin. A bay gelding from Averland, its pedigree was clear and its bearing noble. His morning ritual of brushing the beast was cathartic and cleansing, and Kaspar enjoyed the simple, manual labour involved in maintaining a fine warhorse like this, despite Kurt Bremen’s assertion that such work was for the squires.

Kaspar knew it was not a young beast, but it was strong and had spirit. He knew that its stubborn streak and silver mane had earned it the nickname ‘Ambassador’ amongst the embassy guards, men he could now be proud of thanks to Kurt Bremen’s punishing regime.

The name did not trouble him, in truth he was flattered. As an infantryman by nature, Kaspar did not have the affinity with his mount that cavalrymen were supposed to have – often the subject of many a bawdy joke told in the ranks, remembered Kaspar – and he had never troubled himself to learn the horse’s name before leaving Nuln.

But an animal as fine as this deserved a name chosen by its rider.

He had given the matter a great deal of thought, knowing that a name can carry great power and had finally settled on one that carried a weight of history to it, that Kaspar thought appropriate.

He would name his horse Magnus.

Finished with the brushing, Kaspar scooped a handful of grain from a feedbag hanging outside the beast’s stall and offered it to the horse. The animal gratefully fed on the grain, good Empire feed that kept the beast’s strength up and spurred its growth to the extent that, save for the majestic destrier ridden by the proud knights of Bretonnia, the warhorses of the Empire were the best in the world.

Kaspar turned as he heard a tentative knock on the stable door, seeing a sheepish-looking Pavel standing framed in the doorway, leaning against the gate of the horse’s stall. Ever since the meeting with Chekatilo, Pavel had kept a low profile and this was the first Kaspar had seen of him since then.

‘Is fine animal,’ said Pavel at last.

‘Aye,’ replied Kaspar, tidying away the paraphernalia needed to care for a horse, ‘he is indeed. What do you want, Pavel?’

‘I wanted to explain about other night.’

‘What’s to explain? You let Chekatilo get his claws into Teugenheim and led him into disgrace. It all seems fairly clear to me.’

‘No, that not what… well, is kind of what happened, yes, but Pavel was only doing what Teugenheim wanted to do. I not take him there myself.’

‘Come on, Pavel. You’re not a fool, you must have known what would happen.’

‘Aye. Pavel thought he could look after him, but Pavel was wrong. I am sorry, Kaspar, I did not think it would get so bad.’

Kaspar pushed past Pavel, the sweat he had worked up cleaning Magnus chilling his skin as he came outside. He gathered up his leather pistol belt and strapped it on. Ever since discovering the hearts outside the embassy, he had made a point of never travelling unarmed. Pavel turned and trotted after the ambassador. ‘Kaspar, I am sorry, I not know what else to say.’

‘Then don’t say anything,’ snapped Kaspar. ‘I thought you had changed, that you had found a sense of honour. But I suppose I was wrong, you’re just the same selfish, self-obsessed man I knew all those years ago.’

Pavel flinched. ‘Perhaps you right, Kaspar, but then you the same self-important Empire man with a stick up your arse.’

Kaspar bunched his fists and stared at his old friend for long seconds before taking a deep breath and shaking his head. ‘Perhaps,’ he allowed, ‘but if there’s anything else you’ve been up to in Kislev before I got here, then it ends now. Do you understand me? We have fought together for too many years to allow our friendship to be broken, but there is a war coming, and I can’t afford to be looking two ways at once.’

Pavel smiled broadly, puffing out his chest and producing a leather canteen from his belt. He took a mighty swig and passed it to Kaspar, saying, ‘Pavel will make priestess of Shallya look like gutter whore next to his saintliness.’

‘Well, you don’t need to go that far, but I appreciate the sentiment,’ said Kaspar, taking the canteen and taking a more moderate mouthful of kvas. He handed back the wineskin and asked, ‘Do you think we should contact Chekatilo again, see if he has managed to find out anything?’

‘No,’ said Pavel, shaking his head, ‘he will contact you, but Ursun forgive me, part of me hopes he will find nothing. Chekatilo not a man you want to be indebted to.’

‘I know what you mean, but I can’t give up on Sofia. Anastasia keeps trying to prepare me for the fact that she may be dead, but…’

‘Yes,’ said Pavel, understanding. ‘She is good woman is Sofia. Pavel like her.’

Kaspar did not reply, hearing a commotion that sounded as though it was coming from around the front of the embassy. He heard shouts and the sound of a horse’s hooves stamping on cobbles.

Pavel heard it too and they shared a look, wondering what new mischief was afoot. Kaspar checked that his pistols were primed and they jogged around the side of the building to the grounds before the embassy.

Two Knights Panther stood behind the gates, their swords drawn, while on the other side, two of his liveried guards lay sprawled unconscious.

Circling the angel fountain in the small courtyard before the embassy was a single horseman clad in simple cavalry troos and a baggy white shirt. The fluid skill with the beast and the trailing topknot instantly identified the rider as Sasha Kajetan and Kaspar immediately drew his pistols and marched to stand with the two Knights Panther as more armed men hurried from the embassy.

Kajetan walked his horse towards the embassy gates and Kaspar raised both his pistols, pointing them at Kajetan’s chest.

‘Don’t come any closer, or I swear I’ll put bullets in you,’ he warned.

Kajetan nodded, and Kaspar could see he was in tears, his face twisted in grief.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, casting a plaintive gaze towards the embassy.

‘What are you doing here, Sasha?’ shouted Kaspar. ‘Anastasia is not your woman, she never was. You have to accept that.’

‘I need help,’ answered Kajetan and Kaspar could see blood seeping through the sleeves of his linen shirt. ‘I need to speak, now, before… before I can’t do it any more.’

Kaspar had no idea what the swordsman was talking about and took a step forward, keeping his pistols trained on Kajetan’s chest.

‘Say what you’ve got to say and be gone,’ he ordered.

‘She said you would help!’

‘Who?’ asked Kaspar.

‘Matka,’ wailed Kajetan and hurled something gleaming at Kaspar.

Kaspar’s instincts as a soldier took over and he ducked, squeezing the triggers of his pistols. Both weapons boomed, the bright muzzle flare and clouds of smoke blinding him temporarily. Men shouted and he heard a horse whinny in fear. The Knights Panther quickly moved to protect the ambassador and he was swept away from the gates in a bustle of armoured bodies.

‘Stop!’ he yelled, fighting his way free of the knights. ‘I’m fine. Whatever it was, it missed.’

He looked over to the fountain, but Kajetan was gone, a drifting cloud of powder smoke the only indication that he had been there at all.

No, not the only one. Lying in the snow where it had fallen was the object Kajetan had thrown, and Kaspar saw it was not, as he had first thought, a knife.

It was a hairbrush. Silver and inlaid with pearls, Kaspar felt a surge of fear and hope flood his veins. Old and expensive, the brush’s bristles were wound with auburn hair.

Sofia’s hair.

IV

He was gone for now, but for how long? Sofia had bought herself some time; only a little perhaps, but time nonetheless. The fresh water and the embers of hope that she might yet live through this ordeal gave her new strength and determination, and she was not about to let either go to waste.

Her bindings were still as tight, but when he had rushed from the attic clutching the hairbrush, he had neglected to retrieve his knife, and it lay bloodied on the floor beside her. How she could pick it up she didn’t know, but, inch by inch, she was able to slide the chair she was tied to towards it. At last she was in a position where her left hand was less than eight inches above the knife, but it might as well have been eight leagues for all that she could reach it.

Sofia gritted her teeth and strained uselessly against her bonds, moaning in pain as the ropes cut into her flesh. Blood ran down her fingers and she wept with frustration, knowing he would be back soon. As much as she hated the man who had done this to her, she also felt pity for him. He had not always been a monster, he had been made into one by the abuse of others. Physical abuse and emotional manipulation disguised as love had turned whoever he had once been into the deranged lunatic that was the Butcherman.

The thought that she had been taken by such a notorious killer terrified her, but Sofia Valencik was a woman of strength, and her determination not to end her days in this stinking death attic would not allow her to give up.

And then she knew how she might reach the knife. The chair was too heavy to tip over in her weakened state, but there was one way she could reach it…

She bit down hard on the rag in her mouth and began working the pitch-covered stump of her thumb up and down the rope. Shooting bolts of agony stabbed up her arm as the blackened scabbing came loose and the rope rubbed against the raw, ragged flesh of the stump. Blood streamed from the wound and tears rolled down her cheeks as her chest heaved with wracking sobs of agony.

Soon her entire hand was slippery with blood and she knew she was ready.

Sofia compressed the fingers of her left hand as tightly together as she could and pulled hard against her bindings, her screams of pain muffled by the rag.

Though the pain was incredible, she kept pulling, her blood-slick hand straining to come free. Without her thumb, there was fractionally more give in the rope. Her moistened hand slipped up a tiny amount and she redoubled her efforts, eyes screwed shut as the pain threatened to overwhelm her.

A flap of skin and muscle around the stump tore and as Sofia pulled harder, she felt the wound rip wider. Even more blood soaked her hands, pattering in a red rain to the wooden floor. But her hand slipped up a fraction more, and even though she felt the wound rip wider the harder she pulled, she kept going.

She gave one last muffled shriek of pain and it was done.

Bathed in fiery agony, her hand felt like it was immersed in hot lava.

But it was free, hanging limply at her side and no longer bound to the chair.

She fought to stay conscious, taking great sucking breaths as best she could through her gag. Sofia knew she was losing a lot of blood and could go into shock at any minute, so, as quickly as she was able, leaned over and gripped the knife handle with her numbing fingertips. It was heavy and she almost lost her grip on it several times, but at last she was able to lift it to her lap.

Freeing her left ankle proved difficult without her thumb to grip the knife’s handle properly, but the Butcherman’s blade was wickedly sharp and cut through the rope with ease. With her ankle free, she was able to twist her body around, though her movements were slow and painful. She could feel sores on the backs of her thighs and felt dizzy from the lack of food and water. She cut her other ankle and wrist free then stiffly pushed herself to her feet, using the chair for much-needed support.

Sofia ripped the gag free and felt hysterical laughter build within her.

She was free!

Though she wasn’t out of danger, the thrill of imminent escape made her giddy. Knowing her legs would not properly support her, she crawled across the floor to the trapdoor that led from this place of horror.

Sofia pulled the bolt free and lifted the trapdoor open.

V

Kaspar bellowed at the crowds before him to get out of his way as he charged along the Goromadny Prospekt on Magnus’s back. He and every Knight Panther fit to ride had mounted up the instant Kaspar had realised what Kajetan had thrown him. He didn’t know how the swordsman had come upon the brush with Sofia’s hair, but knew that the bastard had some serious questions to answer.

Pavel had provided him with the location of the Gryphon Legion’s billets and, while there was no guarantee that Kajetan would be there, it was as good a place to start looking as any.

Their helter-skelter ride through Kislev had passed as a blur, too many emotions fighting for supremacy in Kaspar’s head for him to think clearly: anger, vengeance, fear and, most of all, hope. The chance that he might get Sofia back thundered in his head, pressing hard against his anger towards Kajetan. Had this all been some ploy born out of jealousy? The thought that a man could stoop so low for the sake of his twisted vision of love both disgusted and horrified Kaspar.

As he had swung into Magnus’s saddle, Anastasia had run out to meet him, her expression of cold fury the equal of his own. She had taken his hand and looked deep into his eyes.

‘If he has hurt Sofia, I want you to kill him,’ she said.

‘Don’t worry,’ promised Kaspar, ‘If he’s hurt her, then the gods themselves won’t save him from me.’

CHAPTER NINE

I

Pain flared in his side like an angry sun, blood leaking from the hole blasted by von Velten’s pistol ball. Sasha Kajetan kept his hand pressed against the injury, plugging the entry wound with his shirt-tail. He could feel that the ball had passed cleanly through him from the exit wound on his back, but knew that the real danger was the dirt and fibres that had been pushed into the wound by the ball. He had no wish to end his days convulsing in a fever in the Lubjanko, though he knew that was all he deserved.

His head hurt with the trueself screaming in anger at what he had done. It thrashed against the barriers he had erected, screaming at him that he was weak, a fool, a snivelling wretch who deserved nothing but the hangman’s noose.

Kajetan knew that it spoke true and that he was damned, but he could try to make amends for the terrible things he had done. An impossible task, he knew, but that was no reason not to try. He had passed beyond the point where all mortal laws had any meaning for him and wept bitter tears as he rode through the gates of the Gryphon Legion’s billet compound.

A trio of his shaven-headed warriors looked at him in puzzlement as he rode through the gates, vaulting from the saddle and slapping his horse on the rump. Kajetan drew one of his curved swords, keeping his free hand pressed to his wounded side. The warriors shouted to him, seeing the blood soaking his shirt, but he ignored them, limping across the courtyard to the unused tack stores, looking up at the dirty skylight where she awaited him.

One of the Gryphon Legion warriors took hold of his arm, but he shook it off, spinning and cutting the man down with one sweep of his sword and a cry of pain. The others drew back in horror, only too aware of his fearsome skill with a blade.

All he could do now was end everything. It was all he had left.

He would kill his mother and then he would kill himself. Their blood would mingle on the ground and they would spend eternity together.

They would die cradled in each other’s arms and the thought of everything ending made him happier than he could ever remember being.

II

Sofia descended the ladder with exaggerated caution, every movement careful and precise, her rat-bitten feet tender and painful. Below the attic was what smelled like a rarely visited storeroom. The smell of animals was strong and she could see horse blankets, saddles and bridles piled around the long, dust-filled hall – no one had set foot in here for some time. The tack store ran the length of the building, forming a long mezzanine above a straw-floored stable with several horses in narrow stalls.

Dim light filtered in from a number of snow-covered windows and she could see another ladder leading down to the ground level of the stables. She had no idea where she was, but the glow of sunlight around the ill-fitting stable doors was like a beacon of wonderful, divine hope to her.

Sofia eased herself to the dusty floor and crawled towards the second ladder, as she heard shouting voices from nearby. She heard a cry of anguish and felt hot terror fill her.

The doors to the stables below were wrenched open and light flooded inside.

Sofia covered her eyes, unused to such brightness. She heard footsteps lurch through the straw and whimpered in fear, hesitantly opening her eyes as she heard someone climbing the ladder towards the mezzanine.

Did she hope or fear? Was this liberation or was this death?

She pulled herself towards the edge of the mezzanine, her eyes still watering in the bright sunlight. Sofia gripped the knife in her good hand as she saw a man climbing towards the mezzanine.

As he climbed higher, she saw the familiar form of Sasha Kajetan and let out a shuddering breath of relief. It wasn’t Kaspar, but at least it was a face she knew. Then she saw the blood on his arms.

He looked up and she saw the madness within his piercing and terrifyingly familiar violet eyes.

‘It was all for you…’ he said.

She realised in that instant who the Butcherman had been all along and screamed.

III

The Knights Panther rode towards the open gates of the Gryphon Legion’s billets, charging through and drawing their swords as they saw the armed men milling in the central exercise yard. Kaspar reined in his horse and drew his own sword.

‘Where is he?’ thundered the ambassador, levelling his weapon at the nearest fur-clad warrior. ‘Where’s Kajetan?’

The Knights Panther spread out to surround the Gryphon Legion warriors. They held their swords threateningly and even the slowest of the Kislevite warriors could see that they were itching for a chance to use them. And though they were not men without courage, they knew that the armoured knights were more than a match for them.

Kaspar was about to shout his question again when he saw the dead warrior lying on the cobbles and the trail of scarlet that led to the sagging, open door of a long, high stable building at the far end of the yard.

He walked his horse forward and jabbed his blade towards the chest of the nearest Kislevite warrior and pointed at the stable.

‘Kajetan?’ he shouted.

The warrior nodded hurriedly, pointing to the stables. ‘Yha, yha, Kajetan!’

Kaspar dragged on Magnus’s reins and the horse galloped towards the building as he heard a piercing scream echo from inside the stables. He charged through the door on horseback, his eyes sweeping the interior for some sign of the swordsman. Kaspar heard a woman scream and his head snapped up to the top of a long ladder.

Kajetan was climbing the ladder, his curved cavalry sabre dripping with blood. Kaspar heard another scream, this time unmistakably that of Sofia.

‘Kajetan! No!’ he bellowed. Kaspar realised that there was no hope of climbing to Kajetan before the swordsman murdered Sofia. There was only one way to stop him. He raked back his spurs and roared in battle fury, charging his heavy horse towards the ladder.

At the last second he wrenched the reins to one side and the heavy horse hammered into the ladder side on, smashing its base to splinters. Above, Kaspar heard a wail of frustration and the thump of a body landing hard on the packed earthen floor of the stables. Horses whinnied in fear at the commotion, lashing with their iron-shod hooves at the gates of their stalls.

Kaspar wheeled his horse, fumbling for his pistol as Kajetan groggily picked himself up from the floor, his face a mask of fury and pain.

‘She said you would help me!’ he bellowed.

‘I’ll help you die, you murderous bastard!’ yelled Kaspar, sliding from the saddle and advancing towards Kajetan with his pistol pointed at the swordsman’s head. The shadows of the Knights Panther loomed black upon the ground as they blocked the exit from the stables.

Kajetan looked piteously at the upper level of the stables, tears coursing down his cheeks and cutting clear streaks through the dirt on his face. His breath came in quick, exhausted bursts. Though he was wounded, Kaspar had seen how deadly an opponent Kajetan could be and advanced cautiously.

The swordsman still held his blade before him and his eyes never left Kaspar’s as Kurt Bremen shouted, ‘Ambassador, get away from him, leave him to us!’

‘No, Kurt, this is something I have to do. He killed Stefan.’

‘I know, but he is Droyaska, a blademaster, you cannot best him in a duel!’

Kaspar smiled grimly. ‘I don’t intend to, Kurt,’ he said and pulled the trigger.

The moment froze. Kajetan swayed aside and Kaspar was amazed to see his pistol ball blow out a chunk of the stable wall behind the swordsman. Kajetan’s sword swept up, knocking the pistol from Kaspar’s hand.

Kaspar leapt away, expecting a lethal reverse stroke, but was too slow.

Kajetan held the tip of his blade an inch from Kaspar’s throat and sobbed, ‘I am so sorry…’

The swordsman put up his weapon and spun away from the ambassador, vaulting into the stall of a rearing horse. He gripped its mane and swung smoothly onto its back. The beast’s lashing hooves smashed down the stall door and with a feral cry of the steppe, Kajetan and his horse galloped out.

The Knights Panther charged, but Kajetan was a master of horse as well as blade and expertly controlled his mount with his knees while fighting with two swords. Even through his anger, Kaspar was amazed at the man’s skill; not a single blade so much as grazed him as he fought his way clear of the knights. His own weapons slashed and cut with the ring of steel on steel and grunts of pain.

Kajetan forced a path through his opponents and his horse skidded out into the courtyard, its hooves throwing sparks from the cobbles. Kaspar sprinted after him, shouting, ‘Close the gates for Sigmar’s sake!’

But it was already too late.

Hunched low over his mount’s neck, Kajetan shouted, ‘Matka!’, galloped through the gates and was gone.

IV

Kaspar applied a damp cloth to Sofia’s forehead, though the blood and filth that had accumulated from her many days in captivity had long since been cleaned off. When the surgeon had said she was out of immediate danger, Kaspar had prayed to Sigmar, Ulric, Shallya and any god that would listen to thank them for delivering her from the clutches of Kajetan, the Butcherman.

In the hours since her safe return, the Chekist and Pashenko had sealed off the stable block and were even now scouring the city for any sign of Kajetan, but not before a morbid fascination to understand a measure of what Sofia had suffered had led Kaspar to climb into the attic where she had been held. He had not known what to expect, but the ghastly sights he had witnessed there would haunt him for the rest of his days.

Blood covered virtually every surface and trophies of flesh hung on hooks nailed to the walls alongside cheap trinkets and items of clothing belonging to men, women and children. It seemed Kajetan exercised no discrimination in his killing sprees. A varied assortment of tools, knives, and pliers had been discovered, each encrusted with dried blood and matted with hair. How many people had died in that dark, horrible place was a mystery that perhaps even Kajetan did not know the answer to, but Kaspar vowed he would pay for what he had done.

Sofia had somehow survived her captivity in that dark place and Kaspar was filled with admiration at her strength and courage.

She lay asleep in his bed in the embassy, her wounds dressed by the finest physician Kaspar could afford. They could do no more for her just now and Kaspar knew that the rest was up to her.

He had seen many men, whom the surgeons had promised would live, slip away when their will to live simply gave out, but thankfully, he did not think Sofia Valencik lacked the will to live and he bent to kiss her forehead.

He whispered, ‘I promise I’ll find him for you,’ as he heard someone enter the room.

Anastasia stood in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest.

‘How is she?’ she asked.

Kaspar smiled. ‘I believe she will be alright, though Sigmar alone knows how an ordeal like hers will affect her in the days to come.’

‘Has she said anything since you got her back?’

‘Not much, no,’ said Kaspar, rising to his feet and draping the damp cloth over the edge of a basin of water.

‘But she said something, yes?’ pressed Anastasia.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ replied Kaspar, puzzled by Anastasia’s insistence. ‘She said something about Kajetan not being born a monster, but being made into one. That someone wanted him no better than a beast.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ scoffed Anastasia. ‘Sasha was simply jealous of you, albeit in a manner more intense than I would have thought possible.’

Kaspar shook his head. ‘I think there’s more to it than that, Ana, I really do. After all, if he really is the Butcherman, then he was killing before I even came to Kislev.’

‘My point exactly. We don’t even know for sure that Sasha really is the Butcherman. You said yourself that Pashenko thought that there were lunatics who murdered people in the same manner as the Butcherman to mask their own crimes. I think Sasha wanted us to think that he was the Butcherman.’

‘But what about everything in the attic? Why would Kajetan do that?’

‘I don’t pretend to have any answers,’ said Anastasia, leaning up to kiss his cheek, ‘but it’s more likely than what Sofia was saying, don’t you think?’

Kaspar didn’t reply, unconvinced by Anastasia’s line of reasoning.

‘But more to the point,’ continued Anastasia, ‘what is being done to catch Sasha? The thought of him still out there chills my blood, I don’t mind telling you. I don’t feel safe, Kaspar, tell me you’ll keep me safe.’

‘Don’t worry, Ana,’ said Kaspar, taking her in his arms. ‘I said I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you again and I meant that. They’re hunting through the entire city for Kajetan right now.’

‘Yes?’

‘Yes, absolutely,’ said Kaspar as a nagging memory tried to surface in the back of his mind. Something about family estates… but it slipped away as Anastasia said, ‘You’re going to have to kill Sasha, you know that don’t you? He won’t be taken alive.’

‘If that’s what it takes,’ answered Kaspar.

‘If that’s what it takes…’ repeated Anastasia, pushing free of his arms, sudden anger in her voice. ‘He killed your oldest comrade and, from the looks of her, tortured your friend. What kind of man could let such insults to his honour go unanswered?’

Kaspar had not seen this side of Anastasia before and it unsettled him greatly, but he supposed that she had just found out a man she had counted as a friend and admirer had turned out to be a vicious killer.

‘Don’t worry, Ana,’ said Kaspar. ‘Kajetan will pay for his crimes. In any case, he may be dead already. When I saw him in the stables, he was wounded. I think I hit him with a pistol ball when he was outside the embassy.’

‘Don’t be so sure,’ warned Anastasia. ‘Sasha Kajetan is not a man who will die easily.’

‘Perhaps not, but then I am not a man who gives up easily,’ said Kaspar as the earlier, elusive memory rose to the surface with the suddenness of a bolt of lightning from a cloudless sky.

‘Of course!’ he shouted, snapping his fingers.

‘Kaspar, what’s the matter?’ said Anastasia.

‘I have to go!’ said Kaspar, planting a hurried kiss on her cheek before running from the room and shouting for Pavel.

‘Look after Sofia,’ he called back. ‘I think I may know where to find Kajetan.’

V

Raspotitsa. Roadlessness.

It was an apt term, thought Sasha Kajetan dreamily as he swayed on the back of his horse – coined with the prosaic practicality of the Kislevite peasant – and never more so than now. The sheer scale of the white, featureless steppe unfolding before him was an unending vista that would humble a lesser man and drive him to seek shelter within the walls of one of the many stanistas that dotted the oblast.

But Kajetan was denied any such succour. He could no longer show his face now that his trueself had been unmasked. He could feel it rage within his skull, but he kept it locked away, its restraint made easier the more distance he put between himself and Kislev.

The grey skies sprawled endlessly above him, vast and unforgiving. A man could lose himself in minutes in such conditions, but not him. He rode towards his destination as surely as though drawn by a sliver of lodestone metal. Though without any discernable landmarks in this icy desert wilderness anyone else would have been hopelessly lost by now.

Anyone else except him.

His side ached from where he had fallen from the ladder and he suspected that he had at least one broken rib. Below that, he had packed his gunshot wound with snow and bound it tight with his sword belt. He swayed unsteadily on the back of his horse, gripping its mane tight as it plodded north through the snow. He was confident that he could survive the trip, but would his mount? He had no grain, nor was there any forage to be had on the steppe that wasn’t frozen beneath the snows.

None of that mattered though; he had his bow to hunt food and if his mount perished, then he would have fresh meat. There was snow enough to melt for drinking water and he knew that his wounds, while painful, were not mortal.

No, all that mattered was that he returned to where it had all began.

Then they could be together at last.

VI

‘I don’t care how busy he is,’ snapped Kaspar, ‘I need to see Minister Losov now.’

‘I am sorry, Ambassador von Velten, but the minister has left strict instructions that he is not to be disturbed,’ said the bronze-armoured knight, blocking their path towards Losov’s chambers within the Winter Palace.

After leaving Anastasia and Sofia, he and Pavel had ridden to the grim, dark-stoned Chekist building as though the hounds of Chaos themselves were hot on their heels and Kaspar had explained to Pashenko his theory of where they might find the fugitive Kajetan. Remembering an offhand remark from Losov at the reception where he had been presented to the Tzarina and the last word Kajetan had shouted as he made his escape, Kaspar had been seized by a powerful intuition as to where Kajetan would flee.

The chief of the Chekist had been sceptical, claiming that if Kajetan had left Kislev to travel to where Kaspar suspected, then he was already as good as dead. But Kaspar had been stubbornly insistent and had convinced Pashenko to accompany him to the palace, understanding that his fearsome reputation might open doors that he himself could not.

One such door that was firmly shut before them was the door that led to the chambers of the Tzarina’s chief advisor, Pjotr Ivanovich Losov, and was guarded by an armoured knight who carried a silver-bladed halberd.

‘You don’t understand,’ explained Kaspar, his patience wearing thin. ‘It is a matter of the gravest urgency that I speak to him.’

‘I cannot allow that,’ said the knight.

‘Sigmar’s blood,’ snapped Kaspar and turned in exasperation to Pavel and Pashenko. He nodded imperceptibly to the Chekist and Pashenko took a brisk step forward to stand before the knight with his hands laced behind his back.

‘Do you know who I am, knight?’ asked Pashenko.

‘Yes, sir, I do.’

‘Then you will know that I am not a man to cross. Ambassador von Velten requires to see the Tzarina’s advisor with information on a matter that may have grave ramifications for our great city. I am sure you, as one of our city’s guardians, will understand that I, as a fellow guardian, must see that that information is delivered, yes?’

‘I understand that, but–’

‘It is a position of no small prestige to wear the armour of bronze is it not?’ said Pashenko, abruptly changing tack and rapping his knuckles on the knight’s breastplate.

‘It is a position of great honour, sir,’ answered the knight proudly.

‘Hmm… yes, I imagine the shame of being discharged from the Palace Guard in disgrace would be equally great, would it not?’

Kaspar found Pashenko’s methods distasteful, but told himself that they did not have the luxury of time to achieve their goal by honourable means. If they must threaten this no doubt courageous knight with disgrace then so be it. Every second they wasted in Kislev put Kajetan further beyond their justice.

‘Sir–’ began the knight, beginning to realise his predicament.

‘And I should imagine the likelihood of securing a commission in another knightly order would be almost impossible with that kind of stain against your honour, would it not?’

Pashenko brushed a fragment of lint from the lapels of his long coat as he gave the knight time to sweat inside his armour and weigh up the alternatives.

At last the knight stood aside and said, ‘The black door at the end of the hall is Minister Losov’s private chamber, sir.’

Pashenko smiled and said, ‘Kislev and I both thank you. Ambassador?’

Kaspar swept past the dejected-looking knight, pushing open the door and marching down a wide, stone walled corridor carpeted with emerald green rugs lined with gold and silver threads that traced an intricate pattern of cursive spirals. Gilt-framed portraits of the former holders of Losov’s office lined the walls; grim-faced men with an air of pompous self-importance.

Kaspar paid them little heed as he grasped the gold handle of the black door at the end of the hallway. He turned to his companions and said, ‘Whatever dirt or leverage either of you have on Losov, I need you to use it. Whatever it is, I don’t care, we need to know what he knows.’

Pavel nodded, but said nothing, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead.

‘If you think it will help us catch Kajetan, then I will do what I can,’ said Pashenko.

Kaspar nodded in thanks and pushed open the door to Pjotr Losov’s chambers without so much as a knock.

The Tzarina’s advisor sat behind his desk, scratching at a long parchment with a grey goose feather quill and started in surprise as Kaspar, Pavel and Pashenko entered. Clothed in the ceremonial dress of the Tzarina’s chief advisor, he cut a distinguished figure in his scarlet robes, threaded with gold trim and decorated with black bear fur and silver inlaid tassels, but neither Kaspar nor Pashenko were in the least bit intimidated by his rank or finery.

‘What in Ursun’s name are you doing in my private chambers?’ snapped Losov, quickly opening a drawer and placing the parchment within.

‘I need you to tell me something,’ said Kaspar as Pashenko and Pavel spread out to either side of Losov.

‘What? This is intolerable, Ambassador von Velten,’ snapped Losov, ‘an absolutely intolerable breach of diplomatic protocol. You know as well as everyone else that requests for an audience with the Tzarina must come to me in writing.’

‘We not want to see Tzarina,’ said Pavel hoarsely.

‘No,’ added Pashenko from Losov’s other side, ‘it is you we need to talk to.’

But Losov was an old hand at the diplomacy game and was not about to be put off balance by such obvious disorientation tactics. Instead, he sat back in his thickly cushioned chair and said, ‘Very well, before I have you escorted from the palace and lodge a formal edict of breach of protocol I shall indulge you. What is it you want?’

‘Kajetan,’ said Kaspar simply.

‘What about him?’ replied Losov.

‘He is the Butcherman,’ said Kaspar. ‘And I need to know where his family estates are. I am sure Kajetan will flee there now and at the reception where I met the Tzarina you said his family owned “wondrously picturesque estates on the Tobol”. You know where they are, and you are going to tell me right now.’

Losov said nothing for long seconds as he digested this information. Eventually he said, ‘You are trying to tell me that Sasha Fjodorovich Kajetan, one of this city’s greatest and most popular heroes, is the Butcherman?’

‘Aye,’ said Pavel. ‘He is Butcherman, sure enough.’

Losov laughed and said, ‘That is, quite possibly, the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. Coming from you, Korovic, even more so.’

‘You are snake, Losov,’ said Pavel. ‘You and I both know–’

‘Know what?’ sneered Losov. ‘There is nothing you can say to me that matters any more, Korovic. My past is what I now decide to make it, is yours?’

Pavel bit his lip and said, ‘Ursun damn you, Losov…’

‘Quite,’ said Losov, dismissing Pavel from his attentions and leaning forward to steeple his fingers on his expansive desk of imported Empire workmanship. ‘Ambassador, that you could accuse one of Kislev’s most noble warriors of such brutal crimes is an affront to my great nation, and I shall thank you not to repeat it.’

Kaspar leaned over the desk, planting his palms before Losov, ‘Herr Losov, it has been proven beyond doubt that Sasha Kajetan is the Butcherman. We discovered his lair and have an eyewitness to his brutality, what more do you want?’

‘And you have seen all this, Pashenko?’ asked Losov.

‘I have indeed, minister,’ nodded the Chekist. ‘The attic where Madame Valencik was help captive was a most… unpleasant place. I am fully aware of Sasha’s reputation amongst the common folk, but have to confess that all the evidence seems to point to him being guilty. You should tell Ambassador von Velten what he needs to know and we will be on our way.’

‘Ridiculous,’ repeated Losov scornfully. ‘I’ll hear no more of these slanderous accusations.’

‘Slanderous?’ snarled Kaspar. ‘Kajetan killed one of my oldest friends and tortured another. He brutalised her, starved her and beat her almost to death. He cut off her thumb, for Sigmar’s sake! I’ll not stand idly by while officious bastards like you let him get away. Now tell me where his damned estates are!’

Losov took a deep breath, calm in the face of Kaspar’s outburst.

‘I shall do no such thing, Ambassador von Velten, and if you would be so good as to leave now, I am a busy man and have much to do.’

Kaspar drew breath for another explosive outburst, but Pashenko gripped his arm and shook his head. Kaspar turned to see seven knights of the Palace Guard in bronze armour with their visors lowered and swords drawn gathering behind them. So furious was he that he had not even heard their approach.

Losov smiled, a loathsome reptilian smile, and said, ‘These knights will escort you from the palace, Ambassador von Velten. Good day.’

VII

Pavel took another long swallow of kvas and stared up at the moonlit silhouette of Chekatilo’s brothel, his misery as all-enveloping as the cold that seeped into his bones with every passing second. The guilt that sat upon his shoulders, the guilt that had been growing each day for the last six years, had finally grown too heavy to bear and here he was, back where his fall into degradation and villainy had begun.

When they had confronted Losov earlier that day, his palms had been moist with sweat and his heart pounding in his chest. He had known exactly what he would say to Losov, had known exactly how to prise the information Kaspar so desperately needed from that corrupt sack of shit, but at the crucial instant where the courage of his convictions had been tested, he had crumbled and said nothing. The shame burned hot in his breast, but he could not have borne to disappoint Kaspar again, not after all he had done for him, now and in the past.

He raised the wineskin of kvas to his lips and as he smelled the sour, milky spirit, he tossed it away in disgust. Drink had led to his disgrace and he felt an immense wave of self-loathing wash over him.

Pavel knew that there was no point in delaying this any longer and pushed open the door to the brothel, taking a deep breath and inhaling the musky aroma of incense burners and sweat.

He nodded to a few familiar faces and worked his way through the libidinous crowd to take a seat at the simple trestle bar. He dropped a handful of copper kopeks on the stained wooden bar and accepted a wooden tankard of ale. It was stagnant and flat, but he drank it anyway and waited, shaking his head each time one of the whores attempted to part him from his money with clumsy, graceless attempts at seduction. He saw the girl they had watched dance for Chekatilo numbly ply her trade on a fat man who Pavel swore was insensibly drunk. The fool would wake up on the street without any memory of what had happened and an empty purse, knew Pavel. He had worked as a heavy on the floor of this place for too many years not to know that.

He didn’t have to wait long before a callused, swordsman’s hand tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Hello, Rejak,’ said Pavel without turning.

‘Pavel,’ answered Chekatilo’s flint-eyed killer. ‘He wants to see you.’

Rejak didn’t have to say who ‘he’ was. Pavel nodded and climbed from his stool to face the assassin. ‘Good, because I want to see him too.’

‘Why are you here, Pavel?’ growled Rejak.

‘That’s between me and Chekatilo.’

‘Not if you want to see him, it isn’t.’

‘I want to ask him a favour,’ said Pavel.

Rejak laughed, a thin nasal bray, and said, ‘You always did have a good sense of humour, Pavel. I think that’s the only reason he let you live.’

‘Are you going to take me to him or not? Or are you just going to blow hot air up my arse all night?’

Rejak’s scarred face twitched and Pavel saw the murderous hostility there. Then Rejak gave a thin-lipped smile.

‘Like I said, a good sense of humour,’ he chuckled and strode off to the same door Pavel, Kaspar and Bremen had passed through some days earlier.

Pavel followed him, only too aware of the dire consequences of what he was about to do. He had already failed one test of courage today, he would not fail at another.

He found Chekatilo eating a plate of steaming meat and potato stew. While Kislev went hungry, Chekatilo dined handsomely. He drank wine from a wooden goblet and did not look up as Rejak led Pavel into the room.

Rejak stood behind his master, crossing his hands before him and enjoying Pavel’s obvious discomfort. Chekatilo waved Pavel to the seat opposite him without looking up and said, ‘Wine?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Pavel, the smell of cooked meat making his mouth water.

‘Pavel Korovic refusing a drink? Have the Chaos Wastes frozen over?’

‘No,’ said Pavel. ‘I just don’t want a drink. I’ve drunk too much already.’

‘True,’ nodded Chekatilo, mopping up the last of his dinner with a chunk of black bread and finishing his wine. He poured another and sat back as a girl appeared from behind Pavel to take away the plate.

‘Now, what brings Pavel Korovic to me at this late hour?’ asked Chekatilo.

‘He says he wants a favour,’ said Rejak.

‘Does he now?’ laughed Chekatilo. ‘And why is he under the mistaken impression that I give out favours, Rejak?’

Rejak shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps he’s gone soft in the head.’

‘Is that it, Pavel?’ asked Chekatilo. ‘Have you gone soft in the head?’

‘No,’ said Pavel, growing tired of Chekatilo’s theatrics.

‘Very well, Pavel, tell me what you want before I say no.’

‘We have Sofia Valencik back, we found her earlier today. She was being held by Sasha Kajetan. He is the Butcherman.’

‘I know this already. The Chekist have been turning the city upside down looking for him ever since then. Tell me what this has to do with me?’

‘Now that we have Sofia back, the ambassador owes you nothing,’ said Pavel, hating himself for saying these words, but unable to stop. ‘I can place him in your debt again.’

Though Chekatilo tried to mask it, Pavel saw a glimmer of interest in his eyes.

‘Go on.’

‘The ambassador is desperate to find Kajetan and make him pay for what he did, but he can’t find him. He thinks that Kajetan will return to his family estates. Kaspar knows that Pjotr Losov knows where they are, but Losov isn’t telling us anything. But you know things. You can put pressure on Losov that we cannot.’

‘Ah, Losov, a despicable piece of human filth to be sure. I am surprised you did not use the intimate knowledge you possess to force him to tell the ambassador what he wanted to know.’

‘I… I wanted to, but…’

Chekatilo laughed, ‘But you could not say anything because you knew that Losov had more damning information concerning you.’

Pavel nodded mutely as Chekatilo continued. ‘Tell me, Pavel, do you think your friend the ambassador would enjoy hearing how Minister Losov was the man who paid me to have Anastasia Vilkova’s husband murdered, or that Minister Losov is said to enjoy the company of young children?’

‘If it helps him find Kajetan, then, yes, he would,’ answered Pavel neutrally.

‘Yes, I’m sure he would,’ grinned Chekatilo, ‘but would the ambassador also enjoy hearing how his old friend Pavel Korovic was the very man who, six years ago, bashed Madame Vilkova’s husband’s brains out onto the cobbles not a hundred yards from this very building?’

Pavel said nothing, the guilt of what he had done while in the service of Chekatilo flooding back to haunt him once more. Chekatilo laughed at Pavel’s silence and leaned forward.

‘You know I only let you live because I was indebted to your uncle Drostya, don’t you? You are a drunk, a thief, a murderer and a liar, Pavel Korovic; just because you swan about with an Empire ambassador now doesn’t change that.’

Pavel nodded, tears of shame running down his cheeks. ‘I know that.’

Chekatilo sat back and pulled a long cigar from beneath his furred cloak. Rejak lit it with a taper from the fire and the massive Kislevite exhaled an evil-smelling cloud of blue smoke.

‘If I do this thing for you, the ambassador will be in my debt?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘You said it yourself, he is a man of honour and if you find out what he needs to know, he will not allow that debt to go unpaid,’ said Pavel, twisting and knotting his fingers as he spoke.

Chekatilo considered this for a moment and took another puff on his cigar.

‘Very well. I will see what I can do,’ said Chekatilo eventually. ‘But you know that it is not just the ambassador who is in my debt now.’

‘Yes,’ said Pavel wretchedly. ‘I know that also.’

CHAPTER TEN

I

Night around the Lubjanko was a time to be feared. The howls of the lunatics and dying within its fortress walls filled the air with cacophonous ravings and the fear that their madness or maladies could somehow be caught even by being nearby. As such it was a shunned place, the derelict buildings and empty streets around its spike-topped walls empty and deserted, even in a time when so many were desperate for shelter and warmth.

Even criminals, those to whom the scrutiny of others was unwelcome, did not often frequent the echoing prospekts around the death-house of the Lubjanko. Only those about some particularly dark business would dare the haunted shadows that gathered about it, and even then, they hurried to complete their business rather than linger too long.

But one such individual dared to venture here, working silently in a narrow alley that ran the length of the Lubjanko at its rear, beside an open gateway that led within. The hooded man lifted cloth-wrapped bundles onto the back of a high-sided wagon, sweating despite the cold as he hefted each one. He lifted six bundles onto the back of the wagon then stepped around its front, gripping the driver’s bench and preparing to climb up.

‘Still coming for the young pretty ones, Pjotr?’ said a huge figure of a man as he stepped from the shadows. Vassily Chekatilo sauntered towards the wagon, looking for all the world like a man out for a leisurely stroll in his favourite park rather than in the shadow of one of the most dreadful buildings in all Kislev. His assassin and bodyguard, Rejak, followed him, his hand wrapped around the grip of his sword.

The man addressed turned and threw back his hood.

‘What do you want, Chekatilo?’ said Pjotr Losov.

Chekatilo rounded the wagon and lifted a flap of cloth from one of the bundles Losov had placed onto the wagon. A young girl, perhaps five years old, lay bound with cord, her eyes unfocussed. She was obviously drugged.

‘She’s pretty,’ observed Chekatilo and Rejak sniggered.

Losov frowned and pushed past Chekatilo to pull an oiled canvas over the wagon’s contents. Though dwarfed by the massive criminal, Losov showed no fear and repeated his question. ‘I said, what do you want?’

‘Well, since you’re obviously in no mood to share a moment of friendly banter–’

‘We are not friends, Chekatilo, I thought you understood that.’

‘Now that hurts, Pjotr, after all I have done for you.’

‘For which you have been adequately rewarded,’ pointed out Losov.

‘True,’ said Chekatilo, ‘but there is the matter of the man who worked for me that you shot in the head. What was his name, Rejak?’

‘Sorka,’ said Rejak.

‘Yes, Sorka, not a particularly vital cog in my operation, but a cog nonetheless.’

‘Never heard of him,’ snapped Losov.

‘Ah, well, he wasn’t a particularly memorable man, but he had just delivered a rather expensive and dangerous item to you, a chunk of warpstone.’

Losov flinched as though slapped. ‘Damn it, Chekatilo, you were paid not to look in the box.’

‘Yes, but I could not resist having someone check for me. It would be remiss of me not to know what I was smuggling into the city for you, would it not?’

‘Very well, what is it you want then?’

‘I take it you know that Sasha Kajetan has fled the city, that he is the Butcherman?’

‘Of course,’ said Losov. ‘I’m not an idiot.’

‘You know where his family estates are, and I want to know where they are too.’

‘What?’ laughed Losov. ‘Are you now the lapdog of von Velten? Did he send you here? Truly he must be desperate if he sends you to do his dirty work.’

‘No, von Velten did not send me here, but that is irrelevant. You will tell me what I want to know or I shall make it known to your peers that you are a trafficker in forbidden magicks, that you are an abuser of children and a murderer to boot.’

‘You can’t scare me, Chekatilo,’ scoffed Losov, though there was an edge of apprehension in his voice. ‘Who in their right mind would believe a fat, lowborn bastard like you anyway?’

‘You know as well as I do that belief doesn’t matter, Losov. Mud sticks, does it not? Can a man in your position afford to have even the suggestion of such wrongdoings attached to his name?’

Losov chewed his bottom lip before saying, ‘Very well, it matters little anyway, and the sooner he is dead the better. Expect to hear from me at first light; I shall send you what you want to know.’

‘A wise choice, Minister Losov,’ said Chekatilo, patting the side of the wagon. ‘And have a pleasurable evening.’

II

The dawn brought fresh snows, but Kaspar was oblivious to the worsening weather as he sat on the edge of Sofia’s bed and poured her a hot tisane. She sat up with a grimace of pain and accepted the delicate cup. She blew on the steaming liquid before taking a sip, wincing as it burned her cracked lips.

‘Perhaps you should let it sit for a while,’ suggested Kaspar.

‘No, a tisane is most effective when hot,’ said Sofia with a smile. ‘First thing I learned from my father.’

‘Was he a physician too?’

‘No, he was a schoolmaster in Erengrad, and a good one too. It was my mother that was the physician in the family. I was apprenticed to her once I finished my schooling, then sent to Altdorf to finish my training at the Emperor’s College of Physicians.’

Kaspar nodded, glad to have Sofia back and in, more or less, one piece. Even as he formed the thought, his eyes drifted to her bandaged hand. Sofia caught the glance and said, ‘I know what you’re thinking Kaspar, but I want you to promise me you won’t kill Sasha out of hand.’

‘I don’t know if I can, Sofia. Not after what he did to you,’ said Kaspar honestly.

‘That’s just it, he did it to me, not you. Killing him won’t undo what he did, nothing can.’

‘Then we should just let him get away with it?’ asked Kaspar incredulously.

‘No, of course not,’ said Sofia, ‘but I won’t have murder done on my account, Kaspar. I’m a physician, a good one, and I save lives. I won’t have any part in ending lives in that way. If Sasha is not already dead and you are able to catch him, then he must see justice at the hands of the proper authorities. And if that means he swings from the gallows pole, then so be it, I have no problem with that. At least it will be justice and not murder.’

Kaspar felt his admiration for Sofia soar at her ability to transcend hatred of a man who had so horrifically abused her. To show such restraint was something he knew he would not be able to exercise had someone wronged him so greatly.

‘You know that you are a remarkable woman, Sofia?’ said Kaspar, reaching up to stroke the side of her head. As his fingers touched her hair, she flinched and a shudder went through her entire body. The cup of tisane spilled from her hand and shattered on the floor as tears welled up in her eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Kaspar hurriedly as she drew her knees up, her eyes wide and scared.

Sofia shook her head and sobbed, ‘No, it’s just…’

Kaspar leaned forward and Sofia threw herself into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably as the horror of her captivity, dammed for so long behind her reserves of determination to survive, finally broke through.

‘It’s alright,’ whispered Kaspar, though he knew such a sentiment was wholly inadequate. He wished he knew the right thing to say to bring her out of the nightmare in her head, but he was only a simple man and did not know what else to do but hold her.

All he could do was say, ‘It’s alright, it’s going to be alright, I promise.’

They sat that way for over an hour, Kaspar gently rocking Sofia and holding her tightly as her sobs gradually subsided. She gripped him tightly, until at last she pulled away and lay back on the bed, her head turned away from him.

‘I never thanked you,’ she said eventually.

‘You don’t need to, Sofia. I wouldn’t give up on you. I knew you were out there.’

She turned her tear-streaked face towards him and smiled weakly, taking his hand.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I knew you wouldn’t. I don’t know why, but I just knew.’

‘I’m just glad we’ve got you back.’

‘It is good to be back. I didn’t think I was ever going to get out of that place.’

Kaspar felt the rapid beat of Sofia’s pulse through her hand and though he hated to press her on what had happened in the attic, he knew that any scrap of information she might be able to give him could prove vital in the hunt for Kajetan.

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ he began, ‘but why… why do you think Kajetan kept you in that place and didn’t… you know…’

‘Kill me?’ said Sofia. ‘I don’t know, but for some reason I don’t understand, he saw me as his mother. I think that’s at the heart of what drives him. And I saw, or rather, I felt… something else there.’

‘Felt what? Another person?’

‘No, it felt like… like magic, I think,’ said Sofia, becoming more animated as her thoughts crystallised. ‘It felt like someone or something was using magic to talk to him, manipulate him. I knew there was another reason not to kill him out of hand, Kaspar! Someone made Sasha this way and you won’t find out who if you spit him on a sword.’

‘Very well,’ said Kaspar, placing his hand over his heart. ‘I swear I’ll try not to let Kajetan get killed, but he may not allow himself to be taken alive.’

‘I know, that, Kaspar, but try. Please try.’

‘I will,’ he promised as he saw a knight appear in the doorway and signal for his attention. He leaned down and kissed Sofia’s cheek and said, ‘Try to get some rest, I’ll come and see you again soon.’

Sofia smiled and nodded, her eyes already drooping. ‘I’d like that,’ she said.

Kaspar straightened his tunic and followed the knight as he made his way down to the vestibule of the embassy.

‘There is a man outside who claims to have information for you, ambassador,’ said the knight as they descended the staircase.

‘Who is he?’

‘I don’t know, sir, he has not given us his name and so we have not allowed him past the gates. He looks like a disreputable type though.’

‘Don’t they all?’ muttered Kaspar and pushed open the front door. Snow swirled inside and the aching cold gripped him as he pulled on a cloak handed to him by the knight. He trudged through the slushy snow, the path having been cleared and salted earlier that morning.

A man dressed in thick furs paced around the icicle-wreathed fountain before the embassy, his face wrapped in a thick woollen scarf and shadowed in the depths of a hooded cloak.

Even before he pushed back his hood, Kaspar recognised the hostile stance of Chekatilo’s assassin, Rejak. The man grinned and approached the gates, the knights and guards stationed there raising their weapons.

‘It’s alright,’ said Kaspar. ‘I know this man.’

‘Ambassador,’ nodded Rejak with a mocking bow.

‘What do you want? We have Sofia back, and all without the help of your master,’ growled Kaspar. ‘If you are here to claim some kind of favour from me, you have made a wasted journey.’

‘We know you have woman back, but Chekatilo still able to help you,’ said Rejak, pulling a leather scroll case from within his cloak and holding it through the bars of the gate. Kaspar took it and untied the cap.

‘What is this?’ he asked.

‘What you need,’ answered Rejak as he stalked off through the snow. ‘Just remember who got it for you.’

Kaspar upended the scroll case and pulled out a rolled up sheet of ragged canvas parchment. He handed the case to a guard and unrolled the parchment.

It was a map, a map of Kislev, and Kaspar wondered why Chekatilo had seen fit to deliver this to him. There was the city of Kislev itself, etched in copperplate lettering and there in the north was Praag, the city of lost souls, and in the west the port of Erengrad.

The map’s significance was lost on Kaspar until he noticed that many locations were marked as the territories of various Kislevite boyarins and saw one particular marking, some hundred miles north of Kislev, where the two tributaries of the Tobol merged. Written in a small, precise script were three words that sent his pulse racing.

Boyarin Fjodor Kajetan.

He spun on his heel and shouted, ‘Saddle the horses!’

III

‘Chekatilo knows too much,’ said Pjotr Losov, pacing the darkened interior of the derelict building. ‘We should have had Kajetan kill him while we could.’

‘What does he know, really?’ said a figure dressed in long, iridescently dark robes that seemed to swallow what little light penetrated the boards nailed across the windows, its voice smoky and seductive. ‘That he is party to smuggling warpstone into Kislev? Somehow I do not think that is knowledge he will be too keen to see brought into the light of day. And anyway, once the representative of the verminous clans reaches Kislev, it will be gone. We need not worry.’

‘No,’ agreed Losov, ‘but it makes Chekatilo dangerous. He may tell the ambassador.’

‘The ambassador is not a problem, Pjotr, my dear; he is already becoming a pawn of Tchar. And let me worry about Chekatilo. When the army of the High Zar has taken the stones at Urszebya and comes to raze Kislev, I will see that he inflicts the most painful of deaths upon Chekatilo.’

‘I had to give Chekatilo the location of Sasha’s family estates,’ admitted Losov, ‘and that he will tell the ambassador.’

‘I know. The ambassador and his warriors set off earlier today to follow Sasha,’ said the figure

‘Damn,’ swore Losov. ‘They must not catch him.’

‘Do not fret, Pjotr,’ soothed the figure, drawing a long, thin bladed knife. ‘Sasha had served his purpose and was of no more use to me anyway. He had become too deeply immersed in his madness to control effectively and that Valencik bitch had more cunning about her than I gave her credit for.’

‘Then if Sasha is not dead, we must hope that von Velten kills him.’

‘Have no fear of that, Pjotr, the ambassador is a man of fierce passions and even though Sasha is far from me, I can still exercise a measure of influence on my handsome prince. So either Kaspar will kill Sasha or Sasha will kill him. It is of no matter.’

Losov watched as the figure bent down to unwrap the bundles he had brought.

The children’s pink flesh reflected from the polished steel of the knife.

‘These are perfect, Pjotr,’ said the figure. ‘Pure and innocent. They will do nicely.’

IV

The horse stumbled, its movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Sasha Kajetan knew that it would not live much longer, the cold and lack of fodder conspiring to kill it before it had borne him to his destination. But it had carried him further than he had expected and he admired its courage to have brought him this far.

Blinding snow flurried around him, but he guided the dying horse unerringly through the blizzard, his numb fingers entwined in its mane. Kajetan had ridden for perhaps three or four days, sheltering both himself and his horse in the lee of rocks and wrapping them both in the furs he had managed to steal before leaving Kislev. His bow provided him with food and he ate snow for water.

The more distance he put between himself and Kislev, the clearer his thoughts became, the painful hammering of his trueself on the inside of his skull diminishing until he found he could ignore its screaming altogether. The motion of the horse and the unending plateau of whiteness that stretched before him lulled him into a trance-like state where his mind emptied of conscious thought.

He lost track of time and distance, hypnotised by the numbing cold and bleak vista surrounding him, and felt his mind drift back over the years since he had killed his father.

The facts of what he had done to his father in the dark forest had been lost amid the scramble of the local boyarin who had fought to take over his lands. Men who had drunk kvas, hurled their glasses to the floor and filled the halls with their songs of war and sworn eternal brotherhood with his father soon fell to fighting as first one, then another would ride in with his men and take Boyarin Kajetan’s halls for his own.

He and his mother would be swapped between the boyarin as they fought to claim the land. None wanted another man’s wife and child, but knew that to harm them would invite a united retribution from the others. Such a state of affairs had continued for three years until the moment when his mother had sickened of a fever and, despite the most potent medicines of the local midwives, died one bright spring morning.

Sasha’s entire world had collapsed around him, his beloved matka, the centre and extent of his existence was gone and as his father’s halls fell into ruin he journeyed north to Praag and crossed the World’s Edge Mountains over the high pass. He had travelled along what he later learned was known as the road of skulls and journeyed ever onwards to the fabled lands of the east, driven by a need to set eyes on things no man of Kislev could claim to have seen.

Here he had learned the skills of war from the hidden lords of the islands, channelling every aspect of his being into becoming a master of blades. In Kislev the word was Droyaska, blademaster, but on the islands, Sasha had transcended such a state and entered a realm of skill that went beyond such a poor description.

However, the call of his homeland was stronger than he would have believed possible and he had returned to Kislev, earning his passage as a guard on a merchant caravan travelling along the Silver Road to the land of his youth.

His horse stumbled again, breaking his reverie, and he felt himself slip from its back. His fingers slid from the animal’s mane and he thumped onto his back in the snow, crying out in pain as the splintered ends of his cracked ribs ground together. He felt his furs soaking and rolled painfully onto his side. His horse was on its knees, its head buried in the snow and its back legs scrabbling weakly.

Sasha knew that the beast was finished and drew his sword, quickly slashing its throat to spare it from freezing to death. He bathed his hands in the animal’s blood, feeling the pain race around his digits as the warm liquid spilled over them. Steam gusted from its ruined throat and Kajetan bade the animal’s soul a good journey.

The heat of its blood and the hot, metallic scent brought unwelcome memories to him and he shook his head, unwilling to face them as he saw a pale, glowing nimbus of light form in the air before him. He moaned in fear as the shape resolved into a soft feminine face, smiling and ringed with auburn curls of hair.

He could hear laughter in his head and the scent of his horse’s blood suddenly magnified until he could smell nothing but its vital fluid and the tantalising scent of its warm flesh. Sasha dropped to his knees and placed his mouth over the wound in the animal’s neck and ripped a chunk of meat free. It was tough and stringy, the beast having lost much of its fat over the last few day, but as he chewed and felt the blood run down his chin, he felt stronger than he had in days, as though the essence of the beast’s strength were passing to him.

Again his mother was watching over him and he roared as he felt new strength fill him, pulsing around his body with unnatural vigour. Once again she had kept him safe and he knew that he must be close to his destination.

He turned from the dead animal and set off once more, pausing only to gather up his swords and bow. His stride was long and sure and he made good time through the thick snow. As daylight faded, he did not stop, but pressed on throughout the night, the incredible vitality that had filled him upon eating the flesh of his mount still infusing his limbs with power.

Dawn broke, achingly bright and clear, and he gasped as he saw the familiar rocky outcrop he had known as the Dragon’s Tooth as a child. The upthrust rock curled over like the tooth of a gigantic beast of legend and he remembered that his mother had once told him that it had belonged to a fiery dragon that had tried to eat the world only to be foiled by another dragon that continually chased it around the world.

Sasha remembered that the Dragon’s Tooth was visible from the tallest room of his father’s halls and set off again at a run, each stride fire in his lungs as the ground sloped upwards to a tree-lined ridge of evergreens. He scrambled for an hour through the snow, anticipation making him clumsy, until he reached the lip of the ridge and stared down into the hollow of his father’s lands. For a moment all his cares vanished like morning mist and he felt an overwhelming sense of welcome and homecoming – as though from the very land itself.

A pair of foaming tributaries meandered down from the high country, looping across the valley floor before joining to form the River Tobol on the near side of a gently sloping hill. Atop the hill was a ruined keep of black stone, its walls cast down and layered in snow. His father’s halls, abandoned and unwanted. Jagged timber roof beams speared from the walls and where there had once been a timber palisade there was now only a snow-filled ditch and a pair of splintered posts.

Home.

Further out, as the land rose in a gentle slope, was a thick forest of dark, densely packed evergreen trees and beyond even that was the distant shapes of the snow capped peaks of the World’s Edge Mountains. The sky was gloriously clear and birds wheeled overhead, cawing loudly in their airborne kingdom and welcoming him home.

Sasha made his way into the hollow, pushing through the thick snow, a sudden sense of uneasiness building within him as he approached the place where everything had begun: his shame, his terror and finally, his liberation – or damnation – he wasn’t sure which.

The earlier elation and strength that had fuelled his mad, all-night scramble through the wilderness evaporated and he sank to his knees, tears coursing down his cheeks as he stared up at the bleak hillside and the ruined hall at its summit.

‘Why did you hate me so?’ he shouted at the dark silhouette. ‘Why?’

Birds took flight from their trees, startled by his yelling and the echoes that rippled back from the sides of the hollow. No answer was forthcoming, and nor did he expect one; his father was years in his grave and his mother had taken every step to ensure that no necromancer or fiend could raise him from it, burying him face down and nailing his burial vestments to the coffin with silver nails.

He felt the tears freezing on his cheek and scrambled to his feet, fording the tributary at its lowest point and beginning the climb to the mount’s summit. His steps were halting and weaving, his strength and courage fading with every step he took.

Covered in sweat like a layer of frost on his body, he reached the blackened walls of the ruin and leaned against their reassuringly firm bulk. The stonework was black and glassy, worn smooth by hundreds of years of lashing winds, and he followed the walls around to the back of the building, supporting himself the entire way.

The ground here was uneven, two mounds of snow slightly raised from the uniform flatness of the rest of the summit. Each mound was topped with a simple carved headstone, the lettering faded and worn down by the elements.

He didn’t need to see the lettering to know what they said; he had memorised the words long ago and found he could still remember every one.

He released his grip on the wall and staggered over to the grave on the right and dropped to the ground, hugging the cold granite of the headstone tightly. He cried onto the stone and slowly slipped down until he was lying in a foetal position before his mother’s grave.

‘I’m here,’ he said softly. ‘Your handsome prince is home, matka…’

Sasha felt the cold seep into his bones and knew that he was going to die here.

The thought did not trouble him overmuch, but the thought of dying alone roused him from his suicidal melancholy. Slowly and painfully he raised himself up and began clearing the snow away from her grave, smiling when he reached the cold, hard earth.

Sasha’s hands were like blocks of ice themselves, and he could not feel the pain of digging in the frozen earth with his fingers. His nails tore off and his fingers were bloody in seconds, but he did not stop.

Nothing would stop them from being reunited. He would keep digging until his fingers were nothing more than bloody stumps of bone if he had to.

V

Kaspar stood atop a rocky crag overlooking the slow flowing Tobol and drained the last of his tea, shivering in the cold night air and staring northwards into the starlit darkness of the steppe. Behind him, the Knights Panther built up the fires that would keep their mounts warm through the night and prepared space to sleep for themselves. Kurt Bremen sharpened his sword with a worn down whetstone, though Kaspar was sure it was as sharp as it was possible to be.

It was dangerous to be out on the steppe this far north, but Kaspar knew that so long as they were careful to only light their fires at night and in depressions in the landscape, the greatest danger was not roving bands of raiders or southerly riding tribesmen, but the cold emptiness of the steppe itself.

Unlike Kajetan, they had not simply ridden north into the depths of the snowy wasteland. They had instead been forced to ride west along the northern bank of the Urskoy, resting their horses at each stanista they encountered, until they reached the point where the slow flowing Tobol joined the Urskoy. Following the touchstone of the river would lead them straight to where Kaspar knew in his gut the murderous swordsman would be.

It had cost them valuable days to travel this way, but there was simply no other option. To ride into the steppe would be to die – a point Pavel and Pashenko had both made when they learned of the ambassador’s plan to hunt Kajetan. But they had made swift progress and, by Bremen’s reckoning, they should come upon the fork in the Tobol by mid-morning of the following day. Kaspar had forgotten how much he relished riding into the wilderness, the thrill of exploring unknown vistas and witnessing nature at its most savage and beautiful.

Though he told himself he was a pragmatist, Kaspar knew that he had a wild, quixotic core that lived for such experiences, even harsh and dangerous ones such as this – why else would he have become a soldier? The past week had been hard on him though, painfully reminding him that he was no longer a young man. His knee ached abominably and despite the thick gloves Pavel had given him, he could barely feel his fingers.

Pavel had been drunk when Kaspar and the knights had set off after Kajetan, a fact that caused the ambassador no small amount of concern. Far from the grim elation that had gripped Kaspar and the Knights Panther, Pavel’s mood had been sullen and withdrawn ever since Rejak had brought them the map, and Kaspar had been disappointed that his old comrade had not even bothered to say farewell or wish them luck on their hunt.

How Chekatilo had known that Kaspar had needed such information was a mystery, but he was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Sofia had wished him success and Anastasia had kissed him fiercely, making him promise to come back safely. Gathering what supplies they would need for their journey, Kaspar and the Knights Panther had set off into the frozen steppe and he had felt a building finality to this journey, a sense that they were embarked upon the last steps of some momentous event whose consequences he could not even begin to fathom.

He trudged away from the rocky crag and descended into the lee of the tall boulders surrounding the place Kurt Bremen had selected as tonight’s campsite. He rinsed his tin mug with snow and placed it inside Magnus’s saddlebags before joining Bremen at the fireside. Valdhaas had walked the animal and brushed its flanks before throwing thick blankets and furs over it. As much as Kaspar enjoyed the splendour of the wilderness, he was grateful that the knight was relieving him of the time-consuming and tiring task of keeping his horse fit for travel. It was all very well grooming a horse in a well-appointed stable; quite another to look after it in the bleak steppe.

The fire crackled warmly, and Kaspar opened his cloak, allowing the heat to reach his body. On the other side of the fire, Bremen continued to sharpen his sword, careful to keep his eyes averted from the fire and preserve his night vision.

‘Sharp enough?’ asked Kaspar, nodding at the sword.

‘A good blade can never be too sharp,’ answered Bremen.

‘I suppose not. You are expecting to use it?’

‘Aye,’ nodded the knight. ‘If we do not encounter Kajetan or kyazak horsemen, then there are older, fouler things than men in this land.’

‘There are indeed,’ agreed Kaspar. ‘There are indeed.’

‘You know Kajetan’s probably dead, don’t you?’ said Bremen at last, broaching the subject that none of them had talked about since they had left Kislev. The sheer numbing vastness of the steppe made virtually every subject of conversation seem meaningless and trite and each man had spent the journey alone with his thoughts. Only as darkness closed in and a man’s surroundings became more comprehensible did it feel that words had reclaimed their meaning, and the knights spoke to one another as though they might never get another chance.

‘Ambassador?’ said Bremen when Kaspar didn’t answer.

‘It’s possible,’ allowed Kaspar eventually, unwilling to be drawn too heavily on the subject.

‘Possible? If I may be blunt, Ambassador von Velten, you are not a stupid man, you must know that Kajetan is probably lying dead in a snowdrift right now. A death that’s far too easy for someone as evil as him, if you ask me.’

‘Evil, Kurt? You think Kajetan is evil?’

Bremen stopped his sharpening and looked quizzically at Kaspar. ‘Of course I do. After what he did to Madame Valencik and my men, don’t you?’

‘I did, yes, but having heard Sofia talk about Kajetan, I’m not sure any more. She said that dismissing what he did just by saying he’s evil doesn’t really solve anything.’

‘What do you think she meant?’

‘I think she meant that it’s easy to describe Kajetan as evil,’ said Kaspar, ‘because it’s seductive and doesn’t require any self-reflection or assessment of the context for his acts. Sofia said that Sasha Kajetan wasn’t born a monster, but that he was made into one and I think she’s right. She said that if we simply label him as evil and use that as a convenient explanation for his crimes, we’re spared from asking why he acted as he did, what drove him to such vile, unthinkable acts.’

‘Very well, so why do you think he committed these crimes if not for evil’s sake?’

‘I don’t think we’ll ever know that for sure, Kurt. Maybe if we take him alive we can find out.’

‘Are you that sure you really want to know, Kaspar? It won’t be easy taking a man like Kajetan prisoner. I won’t allow any more of my men to be killed needlessly, and if I don’t think we can capture him safely…’

‘I understand, Kurt, and if it comes to it, I’ll kill him myself. Have no fear of that.’

‘Good. We understand each other then,’ said the knight.

Kaspar nodded and said, ‘We should try and get some sleep. I have a feeling we will need all our strength tomorrow.’

Kaspar did not know how right he was.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I

The morning sun rose early, and it felt to Kaspar as though he had just put his head down to sleep when its brightness roused him from his dreams. He sat up, feeling the cold seep into his bones as he pulled away his furred blankets. The Knights Panther were already awake, rubbing down their horses and ensuring their mounts were fed and watered before seeing to their own needs.

The fires had smouldered down to glowing embers and a knight went round each one in turn, dumping handfuls of snow on them to extinguish them without smoke. Kaspar pushed himself to his feet, rubbing his knee and wincing as his aged frame protested at another night spent on the ground instead of a soft bed.

‘Good morning, Kurt,’ he said as Bremen climbed down from the craggy ridge above.

‘Ambassador,’ acknowledged the knight, pulling his panther pelt pelisse over his shoulder guard. Bremen chewed on a hunk of black bread and cheese and tore off a piece for Kaspar.

The ambassador took it gratefully, wolfing down the meagre breakfast as he shivered in the cold air. Quickly he pulled on his many layers of clothing and finally dragged on the thick, bearskin cloak that kept out the worst of the Kislevite weather.

‘I think today we should reach our destination,’ he said.

‘Aye,’ agreed Bremen, ‘if the map is accurate enough then I think we’ll be there before noon.’

Kaspar nodded and climbed to the top of the crags where he had stared out over the steppe the previous night. He stiffly walked away from the campsite to find some privacy and empty his full bladder, returning to find that Valdhaas had saddled his horse and was rubbing warmth into its forelegs. He smiled his thanks to the knight and lifted his pistol belt from where it hung on the saddle horn. Both pistols were primed and loaded, though the flintlocks were safely pushed forwards. His sword was tied behind the saddle and he drew it, enjoying the sensation of its finely balanced weight in his palm.

Beautifully crafted by Holberecht of Nuln, the blue-steel blade was smooth and double edged, narrowing to a fine tip that could penetrate the hardest mail shirts. The hilt was of black iron, wound with soft leather and finished with a rounded pommel of bronze. Simply but elegantly designed, it was a functional weapon, forged by a craftsman who understood exactly what a sword was for: killing.

‘May I?’ asked Kurt Bremen, admiring the blade after readying his own horse.

‘Certainly,’ said Kaspar, reversing the blade and handing it to the Knight Panther.

Kaspar was a competent swordsman, but he watched in awe as Kurt Bremen swung the sword about his body in a series of intricate manoeuvres. The blade glittered in the morning light, each cut, thrust and block flawlessly executed and designed to kill an opponent quickly and efficiently.

Bremen spun the blade and returned it to Kaspar.

‘It is a fine, trustworthy blade,’ said Bremen, ‘well balanced and with a good weight, though perhaps centred a little too far from the tip for my liking.’

‘It was commissioned specially for me,’ explained Kaspar.

‘Ah, then the weight is distributed to your preference.’

‘Yes, Holberecht and I spent many weeks sparring together with different weapons so he could accurately gauge my strength and reach before he ever laid hammer on iron.’

‘A craftsman worthy of the name then,’ said Bremen.

‘Aye, he is a man of rare skill,’ agreed Kaspar, sheathing the blade.

Kaspar planted his foot in his horse’s leather stirrup and hauled himself into the saddle, the knights swiftly following his example. Bremen swung onto his own mount and plucked his lance from the snow, resting its butt in the toughened leather cup buckled to his saddle.

The other knights followed suit and as the standard of the Knights Panther rose above the mounted warriors, they bowed their heads in prayer to Sigmar. They prayed a verse particular to their order and Kaspar silently whispered his own words of devotion to the Empire’s warrior god, asking for the strength and courage to face whatever trials this new day might bring.

Their prayers complete, Kurt Bremen shouted, ‘Knights Panther, ho!’ and kicked back his spurs, leading them into the north.

II

Once again, the unending emptiness of the steppe overwhelmed them, and they rode in silence for several hours, the sun climbing further and further into the cloudless sky. The Tobol flowed darkly alongside them, the soft white noise of its waters quietly comforting and hypnotic as the cold winds whipped along its length.

Noon came and went with no sign of the fork in the river and Kaspar hoped that the map had not been grossly inaccurate in its depiction of scale. They had, at best, another few days’ worth of food and fodder before they would have to turn back, and the thought of failing so close to their goal would be galling indeed.

Soon after Bremen called a halt for a rest stop, Valdhaas, who had been riding ahead of the main body of knights, rode back with an excited cast to his features. He carried his lance aloft, its purple pennons snapping noisily with the speed of his gallop.

He reined in his horse in a flurry of snow. ‘A mile ahead, perhaps a little more, there is a small valley where the river forks at the base of a hill. There is a ruined hall at its top and some smaller outbuildings strewn about the valley. I believe that is our destination.’

Kaspar leapt to his feet. ‘Did you see Kajetan?’

‘No, but I did not approach the hall, I rode back as soon as I laid eyes upon the place.’

‘What is the best approach?’ asked Kurt Bremen.

‘As we are,’ said Valdhaas. ‘This route will take us through a copse of firs and bring us to the southern slopes of the valley. The hill upon which the hall sits commands the valley, and if anyone is there they will see us descending to the valley floor no matter which direction we approach from. There is a ford near the base of the hill and dense forest to the north as well, but I saw no one else around.’

‘Then we proceed as planned,’ said Bremen. ‘Knights Panther, column of pairs.’

The knights mounted up and assumed the formation of fast march, setting off at the canter with Kaspar riding alongside Bremen. He thought of the promises he had made back in Kislev, one to kill Sasha, one to take him alive, and wondered which one he would be able to keep. Though his warrior’s heart and sense of honour wanted to cut Sasha Kajetan down like a beast, his intellect and civilised soul knew that to do so would be to perpetuate the evil that had surrounded Sasha for Sigmar alone knew how long.

As he had said to Bremen the previous night, evil was a concept that he had, until recently, used without thought to describe the enemies of his nation. The greenskin tribes he had fought as a pikeman had always been described to him as evil, as had the beasts of the forests that preyed upon isolated settlements of the Empire. But were any of these threats truly evil? Or were they simply acting as whatever had created them had intended?

He remembered a similar conversation he had had many years ago with Stefan as the army of Grand Countess Ludmilla camped in the hills the night before the notorious massacre at Owsen’s Ford.

‘This battle reeks of ambition, nothing good can come of it,’ Stefan had said, sipping a mug of hot-brewed tea.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Kaspar. He had been a young infantryman at the time and looked to the sergeants and officers of the regiment as fonts of all knowledge.

‘I mean that the countess may think that she is doing the right thing here,’ replied Stefan, ‘but then evil often grows from doing good.’

‘I don’t understand. How can evil come from doing good?’

Stefan smiled grimly and said, ‘Let’s say a man stands above a child with a spear poised to kill him. What do you do?’

Kaspar’s reply had been immediate. ‘I would stop him.’

‘How?’

‘I would kill him.’

‘Very well, let us say you kill this man and save the child. The child then grows up to become a tyrant and is responsible for the deaths of thousands. Have you not then caused great evil by doing good?’

‘No, I mean, I don’t think so. You’re saying I should have let the child die? I could not do that.’

‘Of course not, because most men have a code of honour that does not allow them to let evil go unopposed. Had you let the child die, part of you would have died too. Your honour would never let you forget that you had allowed an evil act to prosper.’

‘But does that not meant that the killing of the child would be an evil act that would result in good?’ asked Kaspar.

Stefan had winked. ‘Aye, it is a dilemma is it not?’

It had confounded him then and confounded him still. How could any man know the consequences of his actions? What might be seen as the only true and noble course of action might, in hindsight, be the catalyst for some great evil. The future was unknown and unless a man believed in fate there was no way to judge the outcome of his actions.

All a man could do was uphold his own code of honour and oppose evil wherever he saw it and, after the shameful victory at Owsen’s Ford, this had been the bedrock of Kaspar’s beliefs.

Kaspar was shaken from his thoughts as they rode into the darkness of the copse Valdhaas had spoken of. Here, the knights were forced to slow their advance, walking their horses through the unnatural gloom of the forest for fear that their mounts might plunge a limb into a concealed hole in the forest floor and break a leg.

They made their way through the forest for perhaps another hour, before slivers of light from ahead announced their emergence from the oppressive trees. The daylight was uncomfortably bright after the forest, but Kaspar saw that everyone in the group was glad to be free of the dark evergreens.

As he trotted to the top of a snow-lined ridge, he saw what was left of the valley estates of Boyarin Fjodor Kajetan. Though Valdhaas had told him the hall was in ruins, he had not expected to feel such an air of abandonment.

The blackened stone of the ruined hall filled him with a sense of melancholy. From the little Sofia had been able to tell him, he knew that the young Kajetan had suffered terribly in this place, that great evil had been born here through repeated and systematic abuse.

The tributaries of the Tobol foamed through a crease in the snowy folds of the valley, tumbling down over sprays of shale and granite before meandering across the valley floor to join the lazily flowing main body of the river. As Valdhaas had said, there was a ford at the base of the hill and they rode quickly down into the valley, making good speed across the rolling landscape.

The horses plunged into the icy waters of the ford, whinnying in discomfort as the water reached up their legs to their knees.

Kaspar looked up at the ruined hall, and for a second he thought he saw a shadow of movement. Kajetan? He didn’t know.

But for good or ill, their journey was almost over.

III

Kajetan watched the knights ford the river through blurry, sleep-deprived eyes. At the head of the knights rode the ambassador and he choked back a sob. He burned with pain and fought to hold himself from slipping into darkness. His endurance, once so prodigious, was at its limit and all that was left was… nothing.

Nothing but the fervent desire to atone for what he knew he had done. His memory of what had happened while the trueself had been uppermost in his soul was still indistinct, like the ragged fragments of a half remembered nightmare, but he remembered enough to know that he must be punished.

He stumbled back towards the open grave, dropping to his knees before the bones he had exhumed. He lifted his mother’s skull, still dotted with patches of faded auburn hair, and kissed it goodbye before slinging his bow over his shoulder and gathering up his twin swords.

Sasha Kajetan dug deep for the last reserves of his strength, whispering the Mantra of Inner Power.

Death might be hovering over his shoulder, ready to claim him, but he would spit in its eye one last time before going into the darkness.

Sasha had seen the cold determination in the ambassador’s expression as he rode his horse through the river. He drew his swords, knowing that matka had been right.

The ambassador could help him.

IV

The Knights Panther spread out into a long line as they approached the ruined hall, the wind howling mournfully around its shattered walls and empty windows. Kaspar drew his sword, scanning the high walls and broken rubble for any sign of Kajetan.

He and Bremen rode around the far corner of the ruin and there he was.

The swordsman stood before a dark gouge in the ground, browned bones arranged in the shape of a human body lying beside it. A tattered blue dress had been laid across the bones and a grinning skull topped the macabre ensemble.

Kajetan looked terrible, his hands dripping blood along the length of his swords to the snow, and the bottom half of his baggy white shirt stiffened with dried blood. His face was gaunt and drawn, his hair wild and bedraggled. Gone was the arrogant, confident warrior Kaspar had first seen, and in his place, a haunted, wretched man with the light of madness in his eyes.

But he had his swords drawn and Kaspar had seen enough of his sublime skill to know that even in this forlorn state, Kajetan was not a man to underestimate.

The swordsman looked up as Bremen shouted, ‘Knights Panther, to me!’

Kajetan calmly watched as the knights converged on their leader’s shout, surrounding him in an impenetrable ring of steel.

‘It’s over, Sasha,’ said Kaspar, walking his horse forward. ‘You don’t have to die here, you know that?’

‘No,’ said Kajetan sadly. ‘I do, I really do.’

‘I know what you went through here, Sasha,’ said Kaspar, keeping his tone even and measured. He heard Bremen’s horse approach behind him and slowly waved him back.

‘Don’t think you do, ambassador. You can’t. I did… things, terrible things, and now I have to pay price. I am tainted. Tainted with evil, with Chaos.’

Kaspar saw the agonised look in Kajetan’s eyes and slowly dismounted from his horse. Remembering his promise to Sofia to try and take Kajetan alive, Kaspar unbuckled his pistol belt and hung it from Magnus’s saddle horn.

‘Ambassador von Velten,’ said Kurt Bremen, urgently. ‘What are you doing? Step back.’

‘No, Kurt,’ said Kaspar. ‘Remember what we talked about last night? This is how it has to be.’

‘Matka said you could help,’ said Kajetan.

‘I want to help,’ replied Kaspar, lowering his sword.

‘I know,’ nodded Kajetan with a last look at the skeleton beside the grave. He turned back to Kaspar and said, ‘I’m sorry…’

Before Kaspar had a chance to answer, Kajetan leapt forwards, his swords singing through the cold air towards him. Kaspar barely brought his own blade up in time to block the thrust and parried a blow aimed at his stomach from Kajetan’s other sword. Instinct took over and he launched his own attack. Kajetan’s blades deflected his blows and he took a step back as the Knights Panther closed in.

The two men traded blows, back and forth, for several seconds before Kaspar realised that Kajetan was not trying to kill him. A warrior of Kajetan’s skill could have finished him with the first strike of any such contest and as Kaspar thrust his sword towards the swordsman’s heart, he realised what it was that Kajetan truly wanted.

Kaspar’s world narrowed to encompass only the tip of his sword as it travelled the short distance towards Kajetan’s exposed chest. Time slowed and he saw the forlorn look in the swordsman’s eyes replaced with one of gratitude.

Unable to halt his blow, Kaspar rolled his wrist and managed to alter the angle of his thrust. His blade descended and plunged into Kajetan’s thigh, stabbing through the muscle, fat and bone and sliding effortlessly from the back of his leg.

Kajetan grunted in pain, collapsing as his leg gave out beneath him, tearing the sword from Kaspar’s grip. Kaspar stumbled backwards as the Knights Panther closed in and kicked away Kajetan’s swords. Kurt Bremen planted his foot on Kajetan’s chest and raised his sword to strike the deathblow.

‘Kurt, no!’ shouted Kaspar.

The knight’s sword hovered above the swordsman’s neck and Kajetan screamed, ‘Do it! I deserve to die! Kill me!’

Kaspar gripped Bremen’s arm and said, ‘Don’t, Kurt. If we kill him like this we only perpetuate the evil that caused this and we will have learnt nothing.’

The knight reluctantly nodded and lowered his blade as other knights moved in to drag Kajetan to his knees and bind his wrists with rope. Valdhaas braced his armoured boot against Kajetan’s side and dragged the ambassador’s sword free in a wash of blood.

‘No, no, no…’ wept Kajetan. ‘Please… why won’t you kill me?’

Kaspar knelt beside the weeping swordsman and said, ‘I won’t lie to you, Kajetan, you are going to die, though it will be at the end of a hangman’s rope, not like this. But I swear to you that I will see that those who made you this way are punished as well.’

Kajetan did not reply, too lost in his own misery, and Kaspar pushed himself to his feet, suddenly drained of energy. As the knights bound the wound in Kajetan’s leg, he collected his sword from Valdhaas and gathered up the swordsman’s weapons, slinging them across his saddle.

Kurt Bremen joined him and the two men shared a moment of quiet reflection.

‘I think I understand now,’ said Bremen at last. ‘What you were saying around the fire.’

‘Yes?’

Bremen nodded. ‘Kajetan will die for his crimes, I have no doubt about that, but at least this way, people who hear of what made him such a monster may learn from it.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Kaspar. ‘We can but hope, eh?’

Before Bremen could reply, a shout arose from the edge of the hill.

‘’Ware cavalry!’ bellowed one of the knights, pointing to the far side of the valley. Bremen cursed and ran to gather his warriors as Kaspar rushed to the edge of the hillside.

Across the valley, emerging from the shadowed treeline on the northern slopes of the valley were scores of dark horsemen on snorting steeds.

Kurgans! The northern tribesmen. Warriors of the Dark Gods.

Armoured in black chainmail and lacquered leather plates, their painted bodies and wild coxcombs of hair were bestial and ferocious. They carried a terrible array of broad bladed war-axes and huge two-handed broadswords.

Packs of fanged warhounds, their fur stiffened and matted with blood, snapped and howled around the legs of the stamping horses.

Kaspar ran back to his horse, clambering into the saddle as a Kurgan horseman blew a long, braying note on a curled horn and the warhounds were set loose.

‘Knights Panther!’ bellowed Bremen. ‘We ride!’

V

Kaspar raked back his spurs and Magnus set off at the gallop down the hillside towards the river. The Knights Panther unholstered their lances from the leather cups and even amid the desperate flight from the ruined hall, Kaspar was struck by their magnificence. Armour blazing silver in the sun, their standard raised high and iron lance tips gleaming, they were the very image of courage and nobility.

The baying warhounds sprinted downhill to intercept the knights before they could make their escape, leaping in great bounds through the snow and closing the gap between them rapidly, with the Kurgan horsemen following. Kaspar saw the dark armoured warriors were splitting into two groups, one following the warhounds, the other riding in a wider circle to cut off their escape should the knights make it past the first group.

Kaspar drew his sword, wrapping the reins around his left wrist as their mad ride carried them closer to the river. The wind whipped past him and he leaned forward into the saddle, bracing his weight on the stirrups and holding his sword in front of him as Bremen had taught him. Valdhaas, the knight with Kajetan tied across his horse’s saddle, rode on the flank furthest from the Kurgan horsemen and Kaspar could see how much it chafed him not to be riding with his lance at the ready.

The horses thundered into the ford, glittering spumes of water thrashed into mist by their swift gallop. But it was already too late to escape. Baying for blood, the warhounds were upon them, leaping into the water with their fanged jaws snapping at their prey.

The knights roared and lowered their lances and the first beasts were spitted upon their iron tips. Wood splintered as lances snapped, the water foaming red with the warhounds’ blood and the dying animals thrashed in their death throes. Swords flashed and more yelps of pain sounded as warhounds died. Horses whinnied and reared up as more beasts surrounded them, darting forward to snap at their flanks.

A knight was unhorsed as his mount’s legs were bitten from under him. He splashed into the river and was immediately set upon by a trio of snarling beasts. All was noise, yelling, howling and confusion as the knights circled in the middle of the river, fighting to drive off the blood-maddened warhounds.

Kaspar wheeled his mount to aid the fallen knight, stabbing with his sword and drawing yelps of pain from the warhounds. He slashed his blade through a hound’s back, leaning back into the saddle as another leapt for him.

Its fangs snapped inches away from his thigh, it claws raking bloody furrows in Magnus’s side. The horse reared and lashed out with its iron-shod hooves, stoving in the warhound’s skull. Kaspar fought to stay in the saddle as the unhorsed knight rose from the water, his left arm hanging uselessly at his side and blood pouring from a deep wound in his shoulder.

The knight nodded his thanks then fell back into the water as a black-fletched arrow punched through his breastplate, the shaft fully as thick as Kaspar’s thumb. Kaspar turned his mount as more arrows slashed into the combat. The riders who had followed the warhounds to the ford galloped towards them, shooting powerful recurved bows from the saddle. He saw a hound plucked from the air in mid leap by an arrow meant for a knight and leaned low over his horse’s neck. A flurry of arrows slashed through the air, most ringing from the fine dwarf-crafted armour and shields of the knights. Grunts of pain told Kaspar that not every arrow was thus defeated, that some had found homes in the flesh of the knights.

Kurt Bremen hacked his sword through the last warhound’s neck and wheeled his mount to face the oncoming horsemen. With perfect martial discipline, the remaining knights rallied around their leader, the standard of the templars of Sigmar raised high.

Kaspar rode alongside Bremen, breathing hard and streaked with blood.

‘Charge!’ bellowed the leader of the Knights Panther. ‘For Sigmar and the Emperor!’

With their leader’s battle cry echoing in their warriors’ souls, the knights rode out to meet the Kurgan horsemen. Kaspar felt himself carried along with the knights, caught up in the desperate heroism of Bremen’s warriors. More arrows clanged from armour and shields, but Kaspar saw there were fewer than before as the horsemen swapped their bows for long handled flails with barbed iron balls whirling on the ends of chains. As he rode his horse from the river, he realised that these horsemen had made a dangerous mistake.

Sure that the hounds and arrows would defeat their enemies, the Kurgan horsemen had ridden too close to their foe, and were unprepared for the swiftness of the knights’ charge.

They desperately readied themselves for the attack, but in a contest of arms between armoured knights and lightly armoured horse archers, there could be only one outcome. The charge of the Knights Panther hit the Kurgans like a hammer blow, lances and swords plucking the ferocious northmen from their saddles in a few heartbeats of brutal, close quarter fighting.

Steel rang on iron and men roared in pain. Kaspar saw a Kurgan punched screaming from his saddle on the end of a knight’s lance, scarlet blood spraying from around the shaft. Horses fell and men knocked from their mounts were crushed beneath the stamping hooves of the swirling melee.

Kaspar fired his pistol into the face of a screaming northman, the ball ricocheting within the man’s skull and blasting a hole through the side of his helmet. He shoved the smoking weapon through his belt and drew his second pistol as another tattooed warrior charged him, swinging his flail above his head. Kaspar blew out his shoulder with his shot, but the man kept coming, roaring in his feral northern tongue.

Kaspar rode at him and hammered his sword through the Kurgan’s chest, dragging the blade clear before it could be caught in the dead man’s armour. He fought for breath, exhausted despite the desperate energy that pounded through his veins.

But before the knights could press their advantage, the Kurgans wheeled their mounts, expertly disengaging from the fight and galloping away. Kaspar felt a surge of elation as he watched them ride away and shouted in triumph.

He made to rake back his spurs and give chase, but heard a soaring trumpet blast that he knew was the signal for Imperial cavalry to hold pursuit. Heart pounding in his chest, he dragged on the reins and turned away from the fleeing Kurgans.

Then saw that this small victory had been part of the Kurgans’ plan all along.

Further south, blocking their escape along the river were over thirty riders – the second group of Kurgan horsemen. While the hounds and the first group of horsemen had kept the Imperial knights occupied, these horsemen had cut off their escape and now advanced towards them. No lightly armoured fighters, these hulking warriors were protected by armour of dark iron plate, with horned helms and wooden, bronze-bossed shields. They carried long broadswords and double-bladed axes and Kaspar knew that these men would be the most deadly of foes.

The armoured Kurgan warriors slowly walked their horses towards the knights, their manner arrogant and disdainful, though Kaspar knew that thirty warriors of Chaos could afford to be.

The Knights Panther gathered around Kurt Bremen, tense, but unafraid. The horse of their fallen brother cantered alongside them, but even with his loss, the knights were still twelve strong. And twelve of the best and bravest Knights Panther was still a force to be reckoned with. Their confidence and bravery was a physical thing and Kaspar felt a grim pride that if he were to die in this bleak valley, then he would at least die in the finest company possible.

‘There’s only one way we can do this, Kurt,’ said Kaspar, hurriedly reloading his pistols.

‘Aye,’ nodded Bremen, raising his visor and offering his hand to Kaspar. ‘Straight through them with courage and steel.’

‘Courage and steel,’ agreed Kaspar, shaking the knight’s hand.

‘Ambassador!’ said a voice behind Kaspar. He turned to see Kajetan holding his bound hands out towards him.

‘Untie me,’ said Kajetan. ‘I can help you.’

‘What?’ scoffed Bremen. ‘You truly are mad if you think we’re going to release you, Kajetan.’

‘What do you have to lose?’ pleaded Kajetan. ‘They kill me just as happily as you. You and I both know you cannot win here. You will kill many men, but you will fail. Is of no matter if I die, but I can help you live. Let me do this last thing for you.’

Realising that Kajetan was right, Kaspar rode up to Valdhaas and said, ‘Let him down.’

The knight pushed Kajetan off his horse, the swordsman stumbling as he landed on his injured leg. He lifted his hands to Kaspar who held out his sword and allowed Kajetan to cut his bonds on the blade.

‘Kaspar!’ said Bremen.

‘He’s right, Kurt. They’re going to kill us all and I believe he wants to help.’

‘Quickly, my weapons,’ said Kajetan. ‘The enemy is almost upon us.’

Kaspar unhooked Kajetan’s weapons and tossed them to the swordsman, who slung his swords from his saddle horn and notched an arrow to his bowstring.

‘Damn you, Kaspar, I hope you know what you’re doing!’ swore Bremen, raising his sword as Kajetan vaulted into the vacant saddle of the fallen knight. There was no time to worry about Kajetan now, and he turned his horse to face the approaching Kurgans.

Kaspar fervently hoped the same as he turned his own horse to face the enemy. Less than a hundred yards separated the two forces, and with a roar of bestial fury, the Kurgans kicked their mounts to the gallop.

The Knights Panther, Kaspar and Kajetan answered with their own bellowed challenge and charged towards the armoured Kurgans. Snow churned as the two groups of horsemen hurtled towards one another.

An arrow flashed through the air and the lead Kurgan horseman toppled from the saddle, a grey fletched shaft protruding from his helmet. Another closely followed it, and another, and another. Each arrow punched a Kurgan from his horse and Kaspar watched, amazed, as Kajetan shot warrior after warrior with swift, methodical precision at the gallop.

The swordsman accounted for eight warriors before hurling aside his bow and shouting a Kislevite war cry. Without the weight of a heavily armoured warrior on its back, Kajetan was able to coax extra speed from his mount, and pulled ahead of the knights.

He drew both his swords and struck the Kurgan line in a whirlwind of blades. His weapons were twin blurs of silver steel, swirling and slicing through flesh and armour with every cut. Three warriors fell from their horses in as many strokes and the momentum of their charge was lost as Kurgan warriors fought to defeat this insane swordsman in their midst.

Axes and broadswords slashed all around Kajetan, but none could strike him. Guiding his horse expertly with his knees, he dodged and parried every attack, his every riposte tearing open a throat or stabbing through a gap in armour to open an artery.

The Knights Panther struck the milling Kurgans and battle was well and truly joined, though Kaspar knew that they would be lucky to live through it.

He saw a Kurgan warrior ride up behind Kajetan and shot the northman in the back of the head. The valley echoed to the ring of Empire forged steel on heavy iron breastplates and the screams of wounded men. Heavy axes punched through plate armour and another Knight Panther fell, cleft from collarbone to pelvis.

The battle degenerated into a confused mass of barging men and horses, blades, blood and screams. Denied the momentum of their charge, the Kurgans had lost the initiative of the fight. The shouts and bellows of battling men filled the valley, and Kaspar could see that the battle hung on a knife-edge. The old instincts of a general returned to him and he saw that the pivotal point of the battle had been reached.

The Kurgans had been shocked by Kajetan’s wild charge and had been unprepared for the fury of the knights’ attack, but they would soon recover and use the full weight of their numbers to destroy them.

It would take only the smallest spark of courage or panic to win or lose this day.

He chopped his sword through the arm of a bellowing Kurgan warrior, leaning back to kick him from the saddle as he saw a bearded giant with a scarred face cut a knight from horseback with one blow of his huge war-axe. The Kurgan warrior wore crimson stained armour with a breastplate etched with looping spirals, his bare arms beringed with beaten iron trophy rings and Kaspar knew he looked upon one of the mighty champions of Chaos, a ferocious killer said to be favoured by the dark gods.

Warriors surrounded him, each bearing their champion’s mark upon their breastplates. Kaspar fired his last pistol at the giant, but his shot went wide, tearing open the throat of a horseman beside the armoured giant. The brutish champion dragged his horse around, raising his huge war-axe and riding straight at Kaspar.

Kaspar swayed in the saddle and the axe whistled past his head, striking his shoulder and tearing free his pauldron. He yelled in pain as the axe blade bit into his flesh, the force of the blow almost wrenching him from the saddle. He regained his balance and struck out at the warrior as he passed, his sword clanging from his foe’s thick armour.

Both men circled to face one another again, and Kaspar saw that this was a fight he could not win. The Kurgan saw the same thing and shouted something in his coarse tongue as he charged towards Kaspar.

Kaspar saw a sudden flash of silver and a fountain of red. The bearded giant fell from his horse, his head spinning through the air. Kajetan rode past, bleeding from a score of cuts, his swords flashing as he killed and killed and killed.

Kaspar watched in utter disbelief as Kajetan fought with such grace and skill that it defied all reason. He had heard it said that the true genius of a warrior was to find space in which to manoeuvre, to see the opportunity for the killing blow, while simultaneously denying the same to an opponent. He watched as Kajetan flowed like liquid through the battle, axes and swords seeming to float past him as he spun and dodged with preternatural skill. His blades sang out and wherever they struck, a foeman died.

Kaspar turned his horse, ready to rejoin the fight, though his sword arm burned with fatigue and each breath seared his lungs.

But the Kurgan horsemen were already scattering. The sudden death of their war leader had broken their courage and they galloped their horses northwards, back towards the treeline they had first come from.

Kaspar lowered his sword and let the exhaustion of the battle claim him. He patted Magnus’s heaving flanks and ran a hand across his sweat-streaked scalp, groaning as he felt the pain in his shoulder flare where the Kurgan war leader’s axe had struck him. His arm felt numb and he flexed his fingers experimentally.

He forced himself to remain in the saddle and turned as he heard someone call his name. Sasha Kajetan rode up alongside Kaspar, his bloodstained swords still gripped in his fists.

Kaspar glanced at the weapons and wondered if he was to survive the battle only to die at the hands of the swordsman.

But Kajetan did not have murder on his mind and spun the swords, offering them to Kaspar hilt first. Kaspar took the blades and only then did he notice the many wounds Kajetan bore, each bleeding steadily and strongly.

Kurt Bremen rode up to Kaspar, his silver armour dented and torn, its surfaces slathered in blood. He saw the wounded Kajetan lower himself across his horse’s neck and shook his head.

‘I have never seen his like,’ said the knight.

‘Nor I,’ wheezed Kaspar, amazed they still drew breath. To have fought against such numbers and prevailed was staggering. ‘He was incredible.’

Bremen circled his horse, watching as the surviving Kurgan warriors regrouped at the ford.

‘We should go now,’ said the knight. ‘Most likely that was a scouting party seeking a route southwards for the High Zar’s army. There will be more behind them.’

Kajetan groaned in pain as Bremen rallied his warriors. Kaspar did not know what to say to the swordsman. The man had killed his oldest friend, tortured another and had now saved their lives.

He remembered the look in Kajetan’s eyes as they had fought at the top of the hill and Kaspar smiled, finally understanding the dilemma Stefan had posed before the battle at Owsen’s Ford.

‘Ambassador,’ said Bremen. ‘We need to go now.’

‘Aye,’ said Kaspar, helping Kajetan to sit up in his saddle. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

EPILOGUE

I

Kaspar knew he had never seen a more welcome sight than the towers and buildings of Kislev, ringed by the high wall and sprawling camps of refugees and soldiers. He remembered his first sight of the walls, nearly four months ago, and the sense of anticipation he had felt.

The ride south towards Kislev had been exhausting, Kurt Bremen unwilling to tarry any longer in the north than he had to. There was every possibility that more Kurgan riders would come after them, but they had seen no signs of pursuit and their travels had been without incident. Despite the incredible feat of defeating so many foes, the knights were subdued, partly due to the emptiness of the steppe, and partly due to the loss of three of their brethren to the Kurgans. The standard of the Knights Panther had been kept lowered and Kaspar knew it pained Kurt Bremen to have to leave their bodies behind, but there had simply been no time to recover them.

Their riderless horses were tethered to the saddles of the surviving knights and followed sadly behind the group, as though they knew that their masters were never to ride them into battle again. Kajetan had said nothing the entire journey, save to thank the knight who had stitched his wounds. Since the battle at the ford, he had retreated into a catatonic state, ignoring every question and keeping his head bowed whenever he was addressed. Though he had made no attempt to escape, Bremen was taking no chances and had ordered his wrists bound and that Valdhaas lead his horse.

Understanding a measure of Kajetan’s madness, Kaspar did not believe such precautions were necessary, but was in no mind to argue with the knight.

‘I never thought I would be glad to see this place again,’ said Bremen, riding alongside Kaspar.

Kaspar nodded, too weary to reply. His injured shoulder still hurt like hell, but he smiled to himself, looking forward to seeing Sofia, Anastasia and Pavel again. He twisted in the saddle, seeing Kajetan looking up at the city with an expression of fear and loathing. He supposed that was understandable, given that the Chekist would in all likelihood want to hang him as soon as he was within the walls.

That was something Kaspar was determined to prevent. There were powers at work behind Kajetan, and Kaspar was unwilling to let the swordsman go to the gallows without first trying to discover who they were. He could already anticipate the confrontation with Pashenko.

Kaspar sighed. He had hoped that with the capture of the Butcherman, the coming days would be somewhat less chaotic than he had seen so far.

But he had a feeling that that was not going to be the case.

II

Snow swirled along the night-shrouded length of the valley as the nine riders climbed their way to the top of its rocky sides. Swathed in thick furs, they resembled wild beasts more than humans.

Nothing lived here; nothing could, the rocky ground and howling winds ensured that nothing could survive and kept this part of Kislev uninhabited.

The riders forced their weary mounts to the top of the valley, a deep gouge in the earth that looked for all the world as though the land had split apart and pulled itself a long, snaking wound. Fighting against the worsening weather, the riders pushed onwards and upwards, though it seemed as though the very elements fought to prevent their progress.

Through the blizzard, a vast upthrust crag emerged from the night. A tall menhir, some forty or fifty feet high and formed of a hard, smooth stone, its top was lost in the snow and darkness. Wedged deep in the earth and spearing into the moonlit sky, the huge stone was etched with angular carvings that might once have been crude pictograms before the wind had rendered them illegible.

The riders halted at the base of the huge standing stone, dismounting and pacing around its bulk as though inspecting it. One of the riders, a broad shouldered giant with a horned helm and visor carved in the form of a snarling wolf stepped forward and placed his gauntleted palm against the stone.

‘Be careful, my lord,’ said a rider hung with bones and charms. ‘The stones sing with power.’

‘Good,’ said the helmeted warrior, turning to face his shaman. ‘Bring forth the offering to Tchar.’

High Zar Aelfric Cyenwulf placed his other palm against the stone and smiled. The Dolgans called this place Urszebya – Ursun’s Teeth – believing them to be fragments of the bear god’s fangs left behind after he took a bite from the world. He smiled at the ridiculousness of such a notion.

Though he knew it was reckless of him to come this far south without his army, he had needed to see the stones for himself, and as he removed a mailed gauntlet and placed his callused hand against the cold stone, he knew that the dangerous journey had not been made in vain. Though no sorcerer, he could feel the power that suffused the stone and gave praise to Tchar that he had been led to this place.

‘My lord,’ said his shaman, pushing a bound man to his knees before the High Zar.

Aelfric Cyenwulf stepped away from the stone and opened his furs, letting the cloak fall to the ground. Beneath his furs he wore iridescent plates of heavy steel armour that rippled and threw back the moonlight as though a sheen of oil slithered across its surfaces. Edged with fluted spirals of gold and silver, the breastplate was moulded to resemble powerful pectoral and abdominal muscles. The flesh of his arms was all but obscured by the many beaten iron trophy rings and painted tattoos that writhed with the bulging of his corded muscles. A huge pallasz, its blade fully six feet in length, was sheathed over his shoulder, its pommel worked in the shape of a snarling daemon.

He removed his helmet and handed it to one of his warriors. A wild mane of silver hair, with a streak of black at either temple spilled around his shoulders, framing a face ritually scarred – six cuts on the left cheek, four on the right – that radiated a ruthless intelligence.

The High Zar loomed above his warriors, a powerful champion in the service of the mighty gods of the north, the true gods of man, Masters of the End Times and soon-to-be inheritors of this world.

Before him, the captive shivered and wept, now naked but for a soiled loincloth.

The High Zar smiled, exposing teeth filed down to sharpened points and bent down to lift the captive by the neck in one meaty hand.

The man struggled in the High Zar’s grip, but there could be no escape. The towering champion of Chaos pulled the captive close and bit out his throat with a roar of praise to Tchar, holding the shuddering corpse towards the stone and allowing the jetting blood to spatter the giant menhir.

His shaman leaned forward, examining the patterns formed by the blood as it flowed down the stone, tracing his own designs in the sticky liquid as it reached the faded pictograms. The High Zar tossed aside the dead body, spitting a mouthful of flesh at the base of the stone and said, ‘Well? What do the omens say?’

The shaman turned and said, ‘I can feel the pulse of the world beneath us.’

‘And?’

‘It is afraid.’

The High Zar laughed. ‘It has reason to be.’

About The Author

Hailing from Scotland, Graham McNeill worked for over six years as a Games Developer in Games Workshop’s Design Studio before taking the plunge to become a full-time writer. Graham’s written a host of SF and Fantasy novels and comics, as well as a number of side projects that keep him busy and (mostly) out of trouble. His Horus Heresy novel, A Thousand Sons, was a New York Times bestseller and his Time of Legends novel, Empire, won the 2010 David Gemmell Legend Award.

Graham lives and works in Nottingham.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Published in 2003 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

Cover illustration by Sam Hadley

Map by Nuala Kinrade.

© Games Workshop Limited 2003, 2011. All rights reserved.

Black Library, the Black Library logo, Games Workshop, the Games Workshop logo and all associated marks, names, characters, illustrations and images from the Warhammer universe are either ®, TM and/or © Games Workshop Ltd 2011, variably registered in the UK and other countries around the world. All rights reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-0-85787-312-5

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This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.