A WARHAMMER NOVEL

WARBLADE

Konrad - 03

David Ferring

(An Undead Scan v1.0)

1

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 is a

land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his

throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendant of the

founder 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 World’s Edge Mountains, the orc tribes

are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern

lands of the 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 near, the Empire

needs heroes like never before.

2

CHAPTER ONE

“Konrad!” hissed the skaven. “We’ve been waiting for you…”

Gaxar had adopted his human guise, and he stood in the cave into which the

narrow tunnel opened. The cavern was illuminated by phosphorescence from the

subterranean rocks, a ghostly light which cast no shadows.

Konrad and the Altdorf officer gazed at the terrible scene which confronted them.

Litzenreich and Ustnar were nailed by their hands and feet to the ground, their

limbs outspread. Blood dripped from these raw wounds, and also from the other

injuries inflicted to their naked bodies. They writhed in agony, but were unable to

voice their pain because they had been gagged.

Human and dwarf lay eight feet apart. Between them was room for another

crucifixion, and four iron nails marked where the third victim’s palms and ankles

would be hammered to the rock—and Konrad was the intended sacrifice, his flesh to

be ripped and his bones splintered by the cruel metal spikes.

Gaxar had known that he would come in search of his comrades.

There was another skaven in the chamber, but this giant rodent had not taken on

human form. It was Silver Eye. Konrad had given the creature that name when he

had been a prisoner in the ratbeasts’ lair deep below Middenheim, and named him

because of the shimmering piece of warpstone that had replaced his missing left eye.

Silver Eye had been one of Gaxar’s bodyguards and had escaped with his master

when their domain had been assaulted and overwhelmed by the military forces from

the City of the White Wolf. Now, here beneath Altdorf, the warrior skaven still

carried the black shield with its mysterious golden emblem of mailed fist and crossed

arrows.

Recognizing Konrad, the rodent almost grinned, and its tongue curled from its

mouth, lapping at its jowls. Konrad remembered the loathsome feel of the creature’s

rasping tongue when it had licked blood from his face. The next time there was blood

between them, he vowed, it would be Silver Eye’s…

Konrad had always hated skaven, but clustered around the two supine prisoners

were dozens of creatures even more repulsive than the rat-things. They seemed half

human, almost like infants. As pale as maggots, their naked flesh displayed their lack

of true humanity. They were more like ghouls, drained of all life; their only colour

was the red of their eyes.

With their huge and deformed heads, scaly bodies and stunted tails, twisted limbs

and three-clawed paws, the troglodyte mutants wailed and cried as they fought each

other in their obscene blood lust. It was they who had caused most of the wounds to

the supine sacrificial offerings.

These were the victims and torturers; but they were not the only creatures within

the underground chamber. There was also an audience to the barbaric scene of

3

torment and mutilation. They stood in the darkness beyond the river, high upon a

ledge on the far side of the cavern, a handful of shadowy shapes hidden behind the

stalactites that hung from the damp roof of the cavern.

Konrad absorbed all these details in the instant it took him to step from the

twisting tunnel. At the same time, he switched his sword from his right hand to his

left, then reached behind his back. Beneath his cloak lay the holster which held the

weapon to which he had devoted so much practice time over the preceding days. He

drew it; he aimed; he fired.

As the trigger released the taut wire, the six inch bolt hurtled from the device.

The weapon was a precision mechanism of brass wheels and steel cogs: a one-handed

crossbow.

Gaxar was a grey seer, powerful in the dark arts, but he could not defend himself

from such swift retribution. The arrow flew straight and true, sinking into his right

eye and deep into his skull, its impact knocking him backwards. He attempted to

grasp the steel bolt with his right hand, in a vain attempt to pull it free—but he had

no right hand. As a skaven, his paw was missing; as a human, his hand was gone.

Litzenreich claimed that it was he who had deprived Gaxar of that part of his

anatomy.

The skaven dropped, slowly and silently, and lay unmoving on the ground.

The inhuman infants had been wailing and screaming out their hunger for flesh,

but now came a shriek which drowned out all their feral sounds, a chilling cry that

momentarily froze Konrad. It was Silver Eye, mourning the death of his master. He

raised his sword and hurtled towards Konrad in his quest for vengeance. But the

Altdorf officer leapt forwards, blocking the skaven’s route. Their swords rang as they

clashed together.

Konrad sprang to the aid of the captives, flinging his crossbow aside. The pale

hordes scurried towards him, and his sword swept at the first of the vermin. Its ugly

head flew from its stunted body—but kept on hideously screeching as it arced across

the cavern. More of the deformed swarm scuttled towards Konrad, and more of them

died.

They tried to drag him down by sheer weight of numbers, clutching at him with

their talons, leaping up and tearing at his flesh. Their claws and teeth were their only

weapons, and blood soon flowed from his wounds; but far more blood poured from

his assailants. Immune to his own pain, Konrad stabbed and hacked at his enemies,

punching and kicking, trampling them beneath the metal studs of his boots. Their

flesh was carved and squashed, their bones snapped and crushed.

No longer did the mutants gibber with primitive delight as they lapped at human

blood; now they gasped as their own lifeblood ebbed away. The sound of their dying

was more repulsive than that of their feasting.

A score dead, the same number hideously mutilated and breathing their last, and

still they came at Konrad as he hacked his way through them to Litzenreich. He

leaned down, ripping away the gag from the wizard’s mouth.

More of the verminous things sprang at him, and he nearly fell. His sword swung,

despatching yet more of the predators. But there was still far too many of them. If he

slipped on the gore which oozed treacherously over the rocks, he would never rise.

Down on their level, the pygmy army would overwhelm him in seconds.

4

“Magic!” Konrad yelled. “A spell!”

“Free my hand,” Litzenreich managed to say.

Konrad spun around, hurling away the cold bodies which clung to him. His sword

flashed, and heads flew, blood spurting. He tried to pull the nail free from

Litzenreich’s right hand, but it was too firmly embedded in the rock.

“Pull the hand, pull the hand!” ordered the wizard—and Konrad obeyed.

Litzenreich’s arm came up, and most of his hand with it, but shards of broken

bone and chunks of red flesh stayed fixed to the iron nail. The wizard screamed in

agony, clenching what was left of his fist. But then he stretched out his arm, pointed

with his hand, and his scream became transformed into a spell. A thunderbolt shot

from his ruined fingers, a jagged streak of lightning which impaled one of his

erstwhile tormentors, searing through its warped torso, instantly turning it from

deathly white to charred black.

The creature screeched as it was roasted alive. It was still burning, still howling,

when the next one burst into flames. Then another erupted in a blaze of red and

yellow. The cavern grew brighter, the sounds of death became louder, and the stink

of death was almost overpowering.

Litzenreich burned them up; Konrad cleaved them apart. Either way: they died.

Konrad reached Ustnar, sliding his sword below the head of one of the nails

which restrained the dwarf’s hands, using the blade as a lever to draw the nail

upwards. Ustnar’s right hand came free, and he immediately grabbed the throat of

one of the brutes which was trying to bite through his shoulder. He raised it high,

squeezed until its neck broke, then cast it aside. By then, Konrad had released his

other hand.

There were very few of the stunted monsters left, and yet they attacked with

unabated frenzy. Ustnar grabbed one with each hand, and smashed their skulls

together, again and again until their heads were reduced to a gory mess. Meanwhile,

Konrad released the dwarf’s feet. As the final nail came free, his sword snapped in

two. He drove the broken blade into the belly of another mutant, right up to the hilt.

The screeching thing lurched away, taking the weapon with it.

Litzenreich must have used a spell to free himself, because by now he was on his

feet, surrounded by burning carcasses. The troglodytes were all dead or dying.

The Altdorf officer was also dead, but there was no trace of Silver Eye. He had

gone, and he had taken Gaxar’s body with him. Nor was there any sign of the figures

Konrad had noticed earlier, the ones who had seemed to be spectators on the ledge

beyond the stream.

Litzenreich and Ustnar and Konrad looked at one another. The first two were

almost totally red with blood, most of it their own. Although he had been protected

by his clothing, Konrad had been clawed and bitten in many places.

Then they heard a sound from one of the passages that led from the cavern, and

they all turned. The ominous sound was growing louder, coming closer, the sound of

more enemies rushing towards them. And like the creatures they had just slaughtered,

these enemies were not human. There must have been scores of them, their bestial

warcries echoing through the tunnels—and this Chaos horde would not be midgets,

would not be unarmed, would not be defeated with such relative ease.

“The river!” yelled Konrad. “It’s our only chance of getting out!”

5

This was how he had originally planned to escape from Altdorf, but he had

thought they would only be fleeing from the jail where Litzenreich and Ustnar had

been incarcerated—not from a whole legion of the damned.

They made their way quickly to the water’s edge, the magician and the dwarf

both limping. The river flowed through a channel worn away in the ancient rock, then

disappeared into a tunnel at the edge of the cavern.

“I hate water!” said Ustnar, staring down into the swirling foam. Then he jumped

in and disappeared. By the time he broke surface, he was halfway to the arch where

the river flowed beneath the rock.

Litzenreich did not move, however, not until Konrad shouldered him. The wizard

cried out as he fell, and became silent as he went under. His head appeared for a few

seconds before he was carried away into the culvert.

By then, Konrad had begun to strip off his heavy outfit. His helmet, his cloak, his

cuirass and one boot were gone by the time he saw the first glint of feral eyes in the

darkness of the passageway from which the menacing sounds echoed louder and

louder every moment.

He leapt down into the icy waters of the subterranean stream. After a few seconds

he came up, taking a deep gulp of air, not knowing when he would next be able to

breathe. As he gazed upwards, he saw that the ledge on the far side of the cavern had

not been totally deserted. Two dark shapes still stood there, and because he was

closer Konrad could see them quite well.

One of them was Skullface!

There was no mistaking the preternaturally thin body, the bald head which

seemed to have no flesh on the bone.

And Konrad also recognized the figure by Skullface’s side.

It was Elyssa.

Then Konrad was swept into the darkness of the tunnel, lost within the rushing

waters of the torrent, and all he could do was remember…

He remembered.

For over five years he had believed that Elyssa was dead, that she had been

murdered when their village had been attacked and totally destroyed by a ravaging

army of beastmen. Until now, Konrad had thought that he was the only survivor.

The assault had occurred on the first day of summer, on Sigmar’s holy day. The

previous day Konrad had attempted to leave the village, but he had been unable to

pass through the ranks of marauders who encircled the valley. Disguising himself in

the hide of a beastman he had slain, he had been forced back by a trio of skaven,

made to witness the total annihilation of the only home he had ever known.

Making his way through the mayhem and destruction, he had reached the manor,

hoping that he might save Elyssa. But the Kastring family house was ablaze; no one

could have survived within. No one human.

But an inhuman figure had emerged unscathed from the fierce flames, the skeletal

shape that Konrad had come to think of as Skullface. Konrad had taken aim with his

bow and sent one of his black arrows deep into Skullface’s heart. Had he been

6

human, the gaunt figure would have died. Instead, he had pulled the arrow free from

his bare chest—but there had been no blood, not even a sign of a wound.

Konrad had turned and fled, and he had managed to escape from the holocaust.

No one else could possibly have survived, so he had always believed.

Elyssa…

Elyssa who was Konrad’s first love, and still his only true love.

Elyssa who had named him.

Elyssa who had changed his life.

Elyssa who had given him the quiver, the bow, the arrows, all of which had been

marked with the enigmatic heraldic device—the device emblazoned upon the shield

now carried by Silver Eye.

Skullface must have captured the girl, keeping her alive so long for some

unknown diabolic purposes of his own.

Having failed five years ago, it seemed Konrad had been given another chance to

save her.

He had ventured into the labyrinths beneath Altdorf in order to rescue Litzenreich

and Ustnar from the cells in which they had been imprisoned by the city authorities;

he owed the latter a debt, if not the former. The dwarf was the only survivor of those

who had freed him from Gaxar’s clutches, a period of incarceration which had been

caused by the wizard’s devious machinations in his quest for skaven warpstone. But

by the time Konrad had reached Litzenreich and Ustnar, it was too late; it was their

turn to fall into the grey seer’s power.

Konrad was certain that Gaxar was no more; but Silver Eye had escaped, taking

with him the shield which had made Konrad pursue the two skaven from

Middenheim to the Imperial capital.

Yet that was of no importance, not now, and neither were Litzenreich and Ustnar.

All that mattered was Elyssa.

Konrad wanted to return, to swim back to the chamber where he had seen the girl,

but the force of the water was too powerful and carried him inexorably through the

narrow culvert. It was Elyssa who had taught him to swim, he remembered.

She had given him so much of his life that it was difficult to remember anything

before the day they had met. It was as if he had not been truly born until then. She

was the daughter of the lord of the manor, he the peasant boy who worked in the inn.

He had saved her life, slaying the beastman which had attacked her at the edge of the

forest. In return, she had given him an identity —but he still did not know who he

really was or where he came from.

The raging stream did not totally fill the tunnel, and as he broke surface, Konrad

was careful to keep his mouth shut and breathe only through his nose. Some of the

sewers and drains from the capital emptied into the underground river, but these were

by no means the most foul waters Konrad had ever found himself in.

He could see nothing in the darkness and spent most of his time beneath the

surface, buffeted against the rocks on either side, judging that injuries to his limbs

were preferable to having his head cracked open if the roof of the passage should

suddenly become lower.

7

When he came up for air the third time, he noticed that the darkness ahead was

not so total. It was night, and this could be where the river emerged from beneath the

city. If it was, then the exit would be blocked by a portcullis, some kind of device

designed to allow the water to flow freely but stop intruders using the drainage

system as a way of entering the city. There might also be regular sentries on duty at

the sluice gate.

When Konrad and the officer had discovered that the two cells beneath the army

garrison were empty, the latter had sent orders that Litzenreich and Ustnar should be

prevented from escaping via the underground river. By now, there would almost

certainly be guards waiting for whoever reached the end of the tunnel.

For the first time, instead of letting himself be carried by the force of the stream,

Konrad tried to delay his progress. The waters were far too strong for him to swim

against, but that did not prevent him trying. His pace barely slowed. He reached out

blindly, hoping to grab an outcropping rock and halt himself. If not, he would soon

come to an immediate stop, smashed against the railings or whatever obstructed the

end of the culvert.

The blackness ahead had become grey, and he thought he could make out the

shape of the opening. Where were Litzenreich and Ustnar? Had the force of the water

crushed them against the heavy mesh, knocked them unconscious? Had they sunk

below the surface and drowned?

Closer and closer came the paler darkness, faster and faster did Konrad seem to

be propelled. Then he saw a distant light. The end of the tunnel was either

illuminated on the outside, or else it was the torches of the waiting troops. He turned

his back, bracing himself for the inevitable impact against the maze of metal bars

which must form part of the capital’s defences.

And then, suddenly, he was out of the tunnel. The maze of spikes at the end of the

subterranean stream had been snapped and twisted aside. That could only have been

the work of Litzenreich’s wizardry.

He found himself in a much wider, deeper river. It must have been the Reik. He

was out of Altdorf, downstream from the city walls.

He saw lanterns close to the outlet, could make out shadowy figures holding

them, heard the sound of voices—and a sudden shout.

“There! Another one!”

He ducked down below the surface, and an arrow hit the water by the side of his

face. Deflected by the impact against the river, it missed his shoulder by an inch.

Another shaft sliced past his chest. Konrad dived deeper, kicked around and began

swimming up the Reik, towards the city. The troops would not expect that, he hoped.

The current was not as strong as it had been in the tunnel. Forced into the confines of

the culvert, the stream had seemed more powerful than the Reik, the greatest river in

the Old World.

He wondered who the soldiers thought they were firing at, but he was in no

position to argue with them.

His original idea had been to release Litzenreich and Ustnar from their cells, then

escape from the city with them. He had had no reason to stay in Altdorf—it had

seemed unlikely that Silver Eye was here—and helping the other two to flee meant

he could not remain.

8

But now he had to return, had to get back into the Imperial capital, into the

underground city where Skullface held Elyssa captive.

He ceased swimming and rolled over onto his back, cautiously lifting his face

above the surface in order to breathe, poised to dive below again. He saw the lights

some forty yards downstream, on the far bank of the river. For the moment he was

safe, and the same must have been true of the magician and the dwarf.

Evading a handful of militia would be simple for Litzenreich. Although wounded

and naked and unarmed, now that they were beyond the city the other two were more

than a match for any of the dangers they might encounter in this region.

Konrad would have liked to have them both with him. They would be very useful

companions when he ventured into the unknown network of passages beneath the

city, Ustnar for his tunnelling and fighting skills, Litzenreich for his wizardry. But

there was no reason why they should have wished to accompany him, even if he

could have found them.

As so often in the past, he was on his own. And that was how he preferred it.

Litzenreich could not be trusted. Wolf had been right about sorcerers.

For a moment, he wondered about Wolf and where he might be. Was he still in

Kislev, on the border? Was there still a border, or had the northern hordes overrun

the land? But if things were that bad, news would have reached Altdorf and Sergeant

Taungar would surely have made reference to the campaign when he had recruited

Konrad into the Imperial guard.

He swam up river, slowly. That seemed the best way to enter the capital, but the

city walls were far away and apparently coming no nearer. Although not as powerful

as the underground current, the tide was very strong, and Konrad found himself

growing more weary, as though fighting against a remorseless adversary. There was a

boom across the river, he remembered, a floating barrier to prevent vessels

proceeding further up the Reik without permission—and without paying river dues.

The river was always blocked at night, and he could see that the area was well lit.

It would also be under constant surveillance, particularly as the alarm had been

sounded. He would do better finding another way in, and he began searching for a

place to come ashore.

This was no ordinary riverside, where the ground sloped down to the water’s

edge. Even beyond the city walls, the Reik was lined with high quays for the ships

and boats waiting to enter the capital. He made his way across to the northern bank,

which seemed a little less crowded.

Despite all that had happened, he realized that it could only have been an hour

since he arrived at the army barracks. The night was still young, and there was plenty

of activity aboard the vessels berthed along the river. He had to be careful that he was

not seen or heard by the men on watch on board all the ships and boats.

There was a gap of thirty yards between a sea-going merchant craft and a humble

river barge, and Konrad swam to a point midway between the two. It was ten feet to

the top of the quay, and he grabbed hold of a frayed rope dangling from a bollard

above.

He stayed there for several minutes, only his head above the water while he

leaned against the wooden piling and regained his breath, and he kept gazing around

and above for signs of observation. It was a dark night; neither moon had yet risen.

9

Finally, he began hauling himself up out of the water. Under most circumstances,

he could have shinned up such a rope in two or three seconds; but he was exhausted,

the rope was wet and slippery, and it took twice as long to reach the halfway point.

He heard voices above and looked up, seeing two faces staring down. They may

not have noticed him in the shadows, and he froze. But then the rope swayed slightly

and started to rise. They were pulling him up. He was about to let go and drop back

into the safety of the water when one of the two men called down to him.

“Hold on, mate! We’ll get ya outa there.”

Their accent was unfamiliar; they were not Altdorf soldiers. They must have been

sailors from some other part of the Empire, and they must have believed Konrad had

fallen into the river from one of the boats upstream.

He had lost his other boot in the culvert, and the only other things he wore which

could betray his current profession were his sword belt and scabbard. Without a

sword, they had no function.

One-handedly, Konrad swiftly unbuckled the military belt and let it fall.

“Ya doing fine, mate. Soon havya up.”

The two mariners hauled him up, and both reached down to grab his arms. He

accepted the grip of one, not wanting to risk both of them seizing him in case this

was a trap.

A second or two later, he was up on the dockside. The sailor released his grip,

and the two men laughed as they stared at him.

“Thanks,” he said, deliberately swaying to one side, then pretending to regain his

balance. “Can’t get used to the ground not moving, you know.”

“Yeah,” agreed the one whose hand he had taken, and he laughed again, “we

know. Where’s your ship?”

Konrad jerked his thumb upriver, towards the city. “lust there. I’ll be fine.

Thanks. Be fine. Or you want a drink? Maybe we should go for a drink, huh?”

“Some other time, mate,” said the second sailor. “Looks like ya’ve had enough.

Don’t want ta end up in the drink again, do ya?”

Konrad shook his head, and kept on shaking it. “No,” he said. “No. No.” He

backed away, staggering a little. “But next time, next time, the drinks are on me.

Right?”

“Right.”

“Right.”

He waved to his rescuers, then turned and made his way slowly along the quay.

He could tell they were still watching him, making sure that he did not veer to one

side and plummet back into the Reik. He reached the barge, turned and waved to

them both, then kept on going. Next time he looked back, they were out of sight.

He straightened up, wiped the water from his face, and wondered how to get back

inside the city.

Altdorf was the Imperial capital. It did not bar all its gates at dusk. Its citizens did

not hide away in terror until dawn, dreading the creatures that prowled the night. The

hours of darkness were not lost to the city, as they were in so many villages and

towns throughout the Empire. Altdorf felt itself secure, that there were enough troops

in the city to protect it against any danger.

10

It was true that Altdorf need not fear what lay beyond the city walls—but Konrad

had discovered that the greatest threat was what lay beneath the capital.

He made his way along the quayside towards the white walls of the city, where

the last massive tower seemed to grow out of the depths of the river. Under normal

circumstances, it would have been easy to pass through the gate on the inner side of

the tower. For a few pence, a bribe to the watch, sailors whose vessels were berthed

downriver were allowed in and out of Altdorf no matter what the hour. Their most

frequent destination was the Street of a Hundred Inns, but they could also take

advantage of the other nocturnal attractions which the Empire’s greatest city had to

offer to both its citizens and its visitors.

Cautiously, keeping to the shadows, Konrad approached the entrance. It appeared

that there was more security at the river gate than seemed appropriate. The area was

well lit, and through the opening he could see that several troops were on guard, as

well as members of the watch. A number of sailors from different lands were arguing

and shouting, trying to leave the city, but each of them was being interrogated and

checked before they were allowed out.

A handful of men passed through in the other direction without any such

difficulty. The militia were only inspecting those who wanted to leave. They would

be under orders to find a wizard and dwarf. The latter should present no difficulty,

even to the watch, assuming that one should attempt to pass through. But Konrad

wondered how they were expected to trap a magician.

Perhaps there was another sorcerer in the guard house, and he could detect when

a fellow practitioner was in the vicinity.

If he were not soaking wet and had a few coins on him, Konrad would have been

able to pass into the capital quite easily; but he was soaking wet and he had no coins.

The golden crown Taungar had given him when he enlisted had been in his tunic

before the battle, but it was gone. His clothes would never dry, not at this hour, not

now that winter was nigh. Already he was shivering with cold, and he must shed his

sodden garments soon.

Konrad watched as the sailors passed out of the city. Most of them were in

groups. He needed only one, because what he had to do must be done quickly and

silently, and the one he wanted had to be about the right size. He waited. Finally, a

lone figure who was suitable emerged from the gatehouse. He was walking very

slowly, trying to hold himself straight, but staggering slightly.

“Bastards,” he muttered under his breath. “Altdorf bastards.” He glanced back at

the city and spat over his shoulder.

“Yer right there, mate,” agreed Konrad, stepping towards him from the darkness.

“Yeah,” grumbled the drunken sailor. “Take all our money, then won’t let us out

of the damned place.”

“Same here,” said Konrad, and he put his arm around the man’s shoulder.

“You’re all wet,” he complained, trying to evade Konrad’s grip.

Konrad raised his arm, cupping the man’s mouth to silence him, then dragged

him back into the darkness. The sailor tried to struggle, but it was no use. A swift

blow to the back of his head with Konrad’s clenched fist, and he became still. A

second later, he was lying on the ground. Another half a minute and his outer

11

garments had been stripped off. Konrad tore off all his own clothes and pulled on the

sailor’s shirt and jacket, his breeches and boots.

The man had told the truth, Konrad discovered. Altdorf had taken all his money.

Konrad fastened the sailor’s belt buckle and examined the dagger that he had carried.

It was a short narrow blade, probably used for gutting fish. He cut the metal buttons

from his new coat. They might pass as coins long enough for him to enter the city.

The guard would hardly chase after him for a few pence, he hoped. If they did, it

would be too bad for them.

“Thanks, mate,” he whispered to the supine sailor. “We’re all bastards in

Altdorf.”

He pulled the man’s cap down over his wet hair and walked towards the city gate,

clutching the three shiny buttons in his left hand. The clothes were a reasonable fit,

although the boots were a little loose and rubbed at his ankles.

The watchman at the entrance barely glanced at Konrad as he waved him

through.

“Your boys aren’t making much tonight, Harald,” he heard one of the soldiers say

to one of the watch.

“Wish you lads could be here every night,” came the reply from a tall figure

wearing a copper badge. “But I suppose if they were, your troops would also start

taking a cut.”

And then Konrad was past the two officers and back within the walls of Altdorf.

12

CHAPTER TWO

The only way Konrad knew of to return to the underground cave where he had seen

Elyssa and Skullface was to retrace his previous route. Even if he could find his way

back down into the cavern, they would probably be long gone, but he must make the

attempt.

That meant going back into the army headquarters, then down through the

military prison. He expected that the barracks would be in a state of confusion;

perhaps the beastmen he had heard charging to attack through the tunnel had even

tried to break out into the capital.

When he reached the entrance, he stood watching from the shadows. Everything

appeared as quiet as it had been when he originally arrived. Two infantrymen were

guarding the open gates, but they were leaning against the wall and talking quietly to

each other. It seemed no one realized the full significance of what had happened.

Two prisoners had escaped, and the officer who had discovered the jailbreak had

gone in search of them after ordering that all the exits from the city should be

checked. But the officer was dead, and his death might not yet be known. It might

still be thought that he was in pursuit of the fugitives, following them through the

labyrinthine levels deep below Altdorf. Or if his corpse had been discovered, and

there was no sign of any beast creatures, it would be believed that he had been slain

by Litzenreich and Ustnar.

If it were known that the officer was the victim of the skaven, that there was a

horde of Chaos marauders so very close, then the barracks would have been on full

alert and every force in Altdorf would be preparing to join the expedition against the

insidious invaders.

The infiltration was still secret and silent. It seemed that Konrad was the only one

who knew. Maybe that was for the best, and he stood a better chance of finding

Elyssa if he were alone. An army of extermination would inevitably give too much

advance warning of its arrival, and the girl’s captor would have time to escape with

his hostage.

Konrad had to make his way under the city via the military dungeon; the base

would also provide him with the weapons and armour which he needed. He had

encountered no difficulty entering the barracks earlier, clad in his Imperial guard

uniform and wearing the purple plume of an officer. Now, however, he was dressed

in the unimpressive garb of a civilian.

He pulled off the cap and stuffed it into his pocket. His hair was so short that it

was dry by now, and its cropped style was in keeping with the ascetic look adopted

by the officer class of the Altdorf regiments. Konrad had made his way stealthily

towards the militia headquarters. Now he backed further away until he was out of

13

sight of the entrance, straightened himself then marched towards the gates, bringing

his heels down as hard as he could.

“Ten-” he ordered, “-shun!”

The two sentries sprang to attention in immediate obedience to the order, just as

Konrad came in view.

“Eyes front!” he commanded, emerging from the shadows.

They gazed past him, their halberds held out at the precise angle by their rigid

arms. Konrad marched between them, through the entrance and across the courtyard,

making for the brick guardhouse.

Another sentry stood on guard at the entrance, watching warily as Konrad strode

confidently towards him.

“Who goes there?” he demanded, his hand on his sword hilt.

“‘Sir’!” snapped Konrad. “Call me ‘sir’, or I’ll have you on a charge for

impertinence.”

“Sir!” echoed the guard, clicking his heels together. He glanced back towards the

guardhouse.

It was the same man who had been on duty when Konrad first arrived. He did not

want him to call for assistance from the officer of the watch.

“At ease,” said Konrad, his voice more casual. “Your commanding officer is

expecting me.” He kept walking and drew level with the sentry, who turned as he

began to go past.

“I know you!” said the guard.

He was very observant, recognizing Konrad in the dim light even though he was

wearing completely different clothes, and despite the fact that his face had been

partly covered by his helmet the first time.

His sword was half out of its scabbard, but Konrad already held the sailor’s

dagger in his hand. The guard’s torso was protected by his armour and chainmail.

Konrad’s arm thrust forwards and up, stabbing the soldier in the throat.

There was no time not to kill him. He died because he was alert, because he was

good at his appointed duty—and because he was not fast enough.

Konrad clasped his hand over the sentry’s mouth to silence his fatal scream,

supporting his body as it dropped towards the ground, then taking his sword from his

death grip. A blade in either hand, he hurried towards the entrance.

“Gunther? What’s going on?”

Konrad could see an armoured figure within the building, moving towards the

doorway, and then another. He knew he could probably dispose of them both before

they realized what was happening, but how many more soldiers were inside? He had

wanted to sneak in silently, to make his way unseen through the military quarters and

down to the tunnels below. Even if he were able to fight his way through against so

many troops, he would become the hunted instead of the hunter. This was already a

lost cause; it was time to withdraw.

He slashed with the sword, severing the rope which held the oil lamp over the

entrance. As the lantern dropped, he kicked out, smashing it and sending the pieces

flying into the guardhouse. Burning oil splashed the ground and the walls, and in

seconds the single flame had grown into a raging blaze.

14

Konrad turned and sprinted towards the main gates. The two sentries had begun

to look around.

“Fire!” yelled Konrad, dashing towards them. “Fire!”

The sentries started to run towards the blaze. Then one stopped and called to the

other, who also hesitated.

“Stay at your posts!” Konrad shouted. “I’ll sound the alarm!”

But before they could return to their positions, before they could decide what to

do and before they could block his exit, Konrad was past them and out into the

square beyond the gates. He did not stop running until he was several streets away

when he leaned against the wall of a bakery and glanced back. There was no sign of

pursuit, but he could see a cloud of thick black smoke rising slowly into the dark sky.

He wondered what to do.

He had to stay in Altdorf, because this was where Elyssa was. The only place he

knew in the capital was the Imperial Palace. He would have to return and resume his

role as a member of the Emperor’s elite troops, pretending that the events of the past

few hours had never occurred.

Konrad began making his way back to the Imperial guard barracks, taking the

longer way around, and headed across Karl-Franz Bridge to reach the southern part

of the city. He was still clutching the sentry’s sword in his hand. It was possession of

another dead soldier’s sword which had led to him into this predicament, he realized.

When he had taken part in the assault on the skaven stronghold deep below

Middenheim, he had fought with the blade which had belonged to one of the fortress

city’s troopers—which he had taken from a soldier he had killed. Gaxar and Silver

Eye had escaped from their subterranean lair, and with them had been a human

prisoner. That captive, Litzenreich had claimed, was the exact double of the Emperor

himself!

Konrad knew that Gaxar could construct unliving creatures in the image of other

humans, because he had fought a duel with his own mirror image, a doppelganger

created by the grey seer. If Gaxar had fabricated a replica of Karl-Franz, it could only

be for one reason: in order to replace him upon the throne of the Empire…

In that case, said Litzenreich, Gaxar must have headed for Altdorf via the skaven

underworld, the maze of passages which linked all of mankind’s towns and cities

which had been infested by the ratbeings. That, then, was the direction which Konrad

wanted to take. But it was not Gaxar for whom he was searching, it was his

bodyguard. Silver Eye had carried a shield which bore the same crest that had been

on the bow, the quiver and the arrows which Elyssa had given him a decade earlier.

Konrad was convinced that the enigmatic gold emblem, the mailed fist between two

crossed arrows, was of untold significance. If he could discover something about the

military accoutrements, perhaps even find out the identity of their previous owner, he

was sure it would help him in the quest for his own mysterious origins.

Because of what had happened in Middenheim, Litzenreich could no longer

remain in the City of the White Wolf. He said he would also travel to Altdorf, where

he could continue his researches into the use of warpstone. And so Konrad,

Litzenreich and Ustnar, the only survivor of the dwarfs who served the wizard,

arrived in Altdorf on board the same stagecoach—whereupon the dwarf and the

sorcerer were immediately placed under arrest for breach of Imperial law.

15

Use of warpstone was illegal, unless in the service of the Empire. The penalty

was death, and a message had been sent from Middenheim warning that two such

desperate criminals were on the loose.

There was no warrant for Konrad’s arrest, because no one knew that he had been

with Litzenreich, or no one who had survived the battle in Gaxar’s warpstone

refinery. But Sergeant Taungar of the Imperial guard noticed that Konrad was

carrying a sword with a wolfs head emblem, which meant that the blade belonged to

a Middenheim regiment.

Taungar recognized Konrad from the time when they had both fought in Kislev,

at the Siege of Praag. He knew what an expert warrior Konrad was, and he wanted to

recruit him as an instructor in the Imperial guard. If Konrad joined up, he said, then

the matter of the Middenheim sword could be easily dealt with.

That suited Konrad perfectly. He needed to be in Altdorf, but he did not plan on

being in the Imperial guard for very long.

Now, it seemed, he would have to remain a member of the Emperor’s personal

army a while longer.

The sentry’s sword was a functional blade, a little too heavy and not very well

balanced. It was no replacement for the one he had used beneath Middenheim, nor

for the Imperial guard sword which had snapped when he levered the final nail which

had pinned Ustnar to the ground.

The bridge was deserted, and Konrad leaned over the parapet and dropped the

sentry’s blade down into the murky waters of the River Reik. He hated to be without

a weapon, but he had no need of the sailor’s knife, and it followed the sword into the

depths. He pulled the hat from the coat pocket and put it on. It might serve to mask

his identity if he were spotted.

As he tugged the woollen cap down almost to his eyes, he noticed blood on his

right hand and arm. It was that of the sentry. He removed the coat and wiped his skin

as best he could with the sleeve, spitting on the back of his hand to wash away the

blood which had already dried, then threw the garment over the side of the bridge.

The loose boots made too much noise, and they also ended up in the river.

The cobbles felt like ice, and his breath condensed in front of him as he resumed

his journey towards the palace. The huge building was a black shadow against the

darkness of the sky, the towering silhouette of its pinnacle outlined by the

surrounding stars.

Entering the barracks where he served would be far more difficult than gaining

admission to army headquarters had been. He could easily have gone inside if he did

not mind being observed, but then he would have to invent a story explaining what

had happened to his uniform. When he left a few hours ago, he had no intention of

returning; but now it had to appear as though he had never been away. Because he

had not had permission to be beyond the palace walls, there was no reason for anyone

to believe that he had gone. The sentries had seen him leave, however, not suspecting

that he was not allowed out. There was no reason why they should mention it, and

with luck they would not be questioned.

Barefoot, Konrad felt almost as though he had reverted to the role he had lived

before Elyssa entered his life and changed his whole existence. Becoming a shadow

amongst shadows still came naturally, moving about silently and invisibly so that

16

whatever he did went undetected by the innkeeper who had been his master. To this,

he had added the skills he had learned working for Wolf for five years, all the tricks

of subterfuge and camouflage needed for survival in Kislev, on the frontier between

the human and inhuman.

Often Konrad had infiltrated enemy positions, and although these enemies had

been subhuman their senses were frequently more than human. They may have been

called beastmen, which meant they had none of the nobler attributes of men, but they

possessed the awareness of beasts. They could see more clearly in the dark, they

could hear the almost inaudible, they could detect the faintest scent of a human

adversary. The only way to mask the odour of a human was to overlay it with another

smell, and more than once Konrad had hidden his humanity beneath the olfactory

disguise of bestial blood.

Tonight, he would not be up against anyone or anything with such an array of

keen senses. The palace guards were only human, and they were his own comrades.

But that would make no difference if he should make a slight error and be seen. The

only challenge made to any intruder was a crossbow bolt.

One of the first things he had done when he found himself within the walls of the

fort was to check all the defences, in case it became necessary to leave in a hurry. He

knew all the sentry posts, all the turrets, all the observation points. The times of the

patrols were frequently altered, and the changing of the guards took place at irregular

intervals. He had left the palace by his own unofficial exits on a few occasions while

exploring Altdorf. That was somewhat different, because the sentries were watching

for intruders trying to enter, not for anyone attempting to leave.

Nothing must happen tonight to disturb the regular pattern of security within the

citadel walls, nothing which would make anyone suspicious. He could create no

diversions, the night’s routine must remain exactly that—routine.

He kept the main entrance under observation for a time, watching while a liveried

coach drew up for inspection. There was very little traffic at present, because the

Emperor was away on an Imperial visit to Talabheim. Under normal circumstances,

Konrad had learned, there would be conveyances entering and leaving until the early

hours of the morning, with ambassadors and courtiers and aristocrats and merchants

and servants and functionaries going about their duties and their pleasures.

The sentries spoke to both the driver and postilion, opened each of the carriage

doors, saluted, and checked the occupants. One of them examined the underside of

the coach before it was allowed access to the courtyard, and Konrad deleted this as a

possible means of admittance.

But there were more ways of entering the inner fortress than through the

entrances.

It was all a matter of climbing and leaping, of timing and creeping. And so

Konrad climbed, scaling the outside of the palace wall midway between two

observation towers, where the angle of vision gave him the best chance of being

unobserved. He went up slowly, feeling for every fingerhold, every toegrip. Then the

slowness turned to swiftness as he sprang across the parapet and jumped onto the

roof of the stables below. That was where he had to wait, lying prone across the

slates until the guards had patrolled from one end of the battlements to the next. After

that came the slow squirming over the other roofs, up and down the gables, around

17

the chimneys, then finally down and through the embrasure into the banack room

where he was billeted.

Although of an equal rank to the other recruits, Konrad had been granted an

alcove to himself because of his role as a combat instructor and in deference to his

military experience. He had made it back unobserved, but still he could not rest. He

had lost his sword, his helmet, his armour, his uniform, and now he went about

making good those losses.

* * *

“In all my years in the Imperial guard, I have never seen a parade like this!”

Taungar strode up and down, staring in disbelief at the enlisted men lined up for

morning inspection in the palace courtyard.

“I’ve had men lose their helmets; I’ve had men lose their tunics; I’ve had men

lose their leggings; I’ve had men lose their spurs. At one time or another, I’ve had

men lose just about everything. Swords, lances, daggers, gauntlets, boots,

breastplates, shields, horses. But never, never have I had so many men lose so much

at one time! The equivalent of a complete uniform is missing. Did it simply walk

away? Is this Jape Day? No, it is not. And even if it was, the Imperial guard is no

place for practical jokes. I am not laughing. And no one who has lost so much as a

single thread of braid will be laughing for a month! You will all be confined to

barracks, work extra duties, and lose a month’s pay—you’re good at losing things—

in addition to making good the cost of those items which you have misplaced. How

can you be expected to protect the Emperor when you can’t even look after the

Emperor’s uniforms which he so graciously permits you to wear? You useless bunch

of incompetent idiots! Why any of you were ever allowed to enlist in the guard, I

have no idea. You aren’t even clever enough to join the army. You aren’t even clever

enough to join the watch!”

Clad in his new uniform, Konrad stared impassively ahead as Taungar strode past

him, berating over half of the men under his command. There had been no

opportunity to reach the quartermaster’s stores and replace his missing garments and

equipment from there. Instead, he had had to requisition what was required from the

other troops in the barrack room: a pair of boots from one, a belt from another, and so

on until he had a complete outfit. It had taken a long time to make sure that

everything fitted properly. If they had been more alert, Konrad would not have

succeeded and they would not have been punished. Military justice was arbitrary and

harsh; it should be expected by anyone who had enlisted. Maybe they would learn a

useful lesson: they should never feel safe, no matter where they might be, and they

should never trust anyone.

They all stood in formation, at attention without breastplate or breeches or

whatever item they had lost. There had been much confusion in the barracks when

they began to dress in the darkness before dawn. Those who were first to notice their

losses tried to find replacements from their comrades who were not so swift, and a

number of fights had broken out. Searches had taken place, but nothing had been

found. There was nothing to be found, Konrad was wearing it all.

18

“The army set fire to their own guardroom last night,” Taungar continued. “If it

had been you lot, I suppose you would have burned down the whole palace! Two of

their prisoners escaped, and they have a sentry dead, an officer missing.”

Taungar halted in front of Konrad. “They claim that a member of the Imperial

guard was responsible for all of that.” Konrad’s helmet could not hide all the fresh

bites and scratches on his face. The sergeant looked directly at Konrad as he added:

“But of course they are lying to cover up their own incompetence.”

The dead officer had not been found, and there was no word about skaven or any

other of the hell-spawned bestiary which infested the netherworld beneath Altdorf.

Even the capital of the Empire was not safe from such benighted creatures. Or

perhaps it was because it was the capital that Altdorf had become a centre of Chaos

activity.

This had been Sigmar’s capital after he had united the eight warring human tribes

two and a half thousand years ago, although its original name had been Reikdorf. It

was still the heart of the Empire, and the fastest way to destroy most beings was to

strike at the heart—and that meant striking at the Emperor himself, at Karl-Franz of

the house of the Second Wilhelm.

There could be no immediate threat, not with the Emperor away from the capital.

If it had been Gaxar’s plan to replace Karl-Franz with a necromantic duplicate, such

a scheme would probably have to be abandoned now that the grey seer was dead.

Gaxar must have been the only one who could control his creation, and with him

gone surely the doppelganger had lost its own semblance of vitality.

Litzenreich would have known if this were the case. At one time, the wizard had

claimed that he intended to defeat Gaxar’s scheme to usurp the throne by use of a

resurrected impostor. The sorcerer and the grey seer were old enemies.

The sentry Konrad had killed was the only trooper who could have identified

him. The guards at the gate, and the one who had accompanied him and the officer

down into the dungeon had not had the time or opportunity to get a proper look at

him. In any case, it seemed that the Imperial guard gave no credence to the army’s

claims. There was little love lost between the two military forces.

But from the way he had looked at him, Taungar seemed to suspect that Konrad

had something to do with the events of the previous night…

“Those of you who are fully dressed,” announced Taungar, as he began walking

up and down once more, “one step forward!”

Konrad and seven others obeyed.

“You, you, you, follow me, at the double!”

Konrad and two others followed the sergeant, and they found themselves

becoming part of the escort which climbed two hundred feet to the penultimate level

of the palace, the final rampart where the Imperial ensigns were unfurled every dawn,

high above the city, above the Empire. One of the flagpoles had always remained

empty in the days that Konrad had served here. This was the gilded staff where the

Emperor’s personal flag was raised whenever he was in residence.

From this vantage point, second only in height to the observation turret in the

tower, the city lay spread out below. Konrad could see the army barracks, although

there was no longer any sign of the fire. He could make out the Reik, and the gate in

the white city walls by which he had re-entered Altdorf. He gazed beyond the red

19

tiled roofs of the walls, and he wondered for a moment how far Litzenreich and

Ustnar had managed to get in the hours since their escape.

He felt that he could almost have leaned down and picked up some of the

buildings below, raising them like toys, and that underneath he would be able to see

where Skullface had hidden Elyssa.

When the ceremony ended, and the last notes of the herald’s bugle still echoed

from the nearby dome of the Cathedral of Sigmar, the captain of the guard led his

troopers back down the narrow spiral staircase towards the lower levels.

Taungar and Konrad were the last to begin the long descent, and the sergeant

said: “I will be at the Wayfarers Rest tonight.”

20

CHAPTER THREE

Taungar’s words were not a casual social invitation. Sergeants and enlisted men did

not fraternise, and the Wayfarers was not a regular haunt of the Imperial guard.

Konrad wore the clothes in which he had arrived in Altdorf and he had a pass

allowing him out of barracks for the evening. He took a long detour to the inn, going

by way of Sigmar Bridge and Oswald the Hero Bridge. While he crossed the former,

he jettisoned the rest of the sailor’s clothing which he had kept hidden under his

straw mattress since arriving back at the barracks. And finally he reached the tavern.

The place was no different from a thousand other inns, crowded and noisy, full of

voices talking and laughing and arguing. The walls and ceiling were black with

decades of soot, and the atmosphere was thick with the smell of ale, old and new: the

sour reek of stale beer which had been spilled over the years and saturated the floor,

and the heady aroma of hops from the fresh beer still being brewed behind the

taproom.

At first he did not notice Taungar and thought he had not yet arrived, but he was

sitting alone in the far corner. Even when he saw him, Konrad was uncertain for a

moment that it really was the sergeant. Some men appeared smaller without their

armour, but not Taungar. He was not a tall man, but he was well-built and muscular.

His civilian clothes seemed oddly inappropriate to his physique and his battle-scarred

face. He should have been dressed like a stevedore or a labourer, but he looked more

like a wealthy merchant. He was clad in a well-cut light brown felt jacket and

matching trousers, blue satin shirt, and a yellow silk scarf was around his neck,

fastened by a gold pin of some elaborate design. Although almost as short as

Konrad’s, his grey hair had been neatly combed. The scabbard for a dagger hung at

his hip, and it seemed to be the maximum blade length that a civilian was permitted

to carry. Its handle appeared to be silver.

He was smoking a pipe, and there was an almost full goblet of wine on the table

in front of him. Konrad nodded in recognition and was about to turn towards the

barrels at the other end of the room, but Taungar gestured for him to join him.

“Girl!” he bellowed, as though he were drilling a parade.

Konrad sat down opposite the sergeant, and a few seconds later a young girl

weaved her way through the crush. She was holding a tray of full beer tankards,

which she could hardly lift, and she set it down on the table.

She could only have been about twelve years old, her hair was almost white, and

there was something about her which reminded Konrad of a person he had tried not

to remember. Placing one of the tankards in front of Konrad, her soft brown eyes

noticed him watching her and she smiled at him. Taungar paid, and she picked up the

tray again and moved off.

Her smile was identical to Krysten’s: warm and honest but also mischievous.

21

Krysten who Konrad had almost loved. Krysten who he abandoned when he had

left the mine in search of a lost dwarf temple. Krysten who had been captured by the

swarms of degenerate northern invaders when the mining camp was overrun and

totally annihilated. Krysten who must have been dead by now. Krysten who he hoped

had died quickly and painlessly. Krysten who, he now realized, he had loved.

Konrad raised his beer stein and swallowed half the contents in a single gulp.

Taungar had been watching him, and now he said, “Do you want to tell me what

happened?”

Konrad shrugged.

“You don’t have to, but maybe I can help.”

Konrad looked at him. Taungar was a veteran of many campaigns; he had

survived much more than Konrad could ever know: he had served throughout the

Empire, he had fought and conquered every type of adversary, human and otherwise.

Konrad looked around, at all the people in the inn, some of whom were within

hearing distance.

“The best place to talk secretly is where there is plenty of noise,” said Taungar.

“The best place to be unnoticed is where there are many people. So…?”

Konrad drank more of his beer. “Chaos,” he said quietly, and Taungar nodded

wisely.

It was a word that many used but few understood, and even Konrad was uncertain

of its true meaning. For the majority of the population, the foul power of Chaos was

completely unknown. They went about their daily affairs never suspecting its

existence, never knowing the effect that it had upon their lives and how it influenced

the world in which they lived.

“It’s here,” Konrad added, “in Altdorf.”

Taungar sucked on his pipe and blew smoke from between his teeth. “I know,” he

said.

“How long have you known? Since Praag?”

“Before, and I recognized the malign forces that were controlling the siege. I

almost died. I’m like you, I’m a warrior. We both live on the edge of death. I was

part of the relief army, and I came within a moment of dying. Sometimes I imagine

that I did die, that I have been a ghost ever since.” Taungar smiled at the idea and

took a sip of his wine. “Growing older makes us more conscious of our mortality,

Konrad. When I was younger, I took so many risks, fought without a care for my

own existence.” He took another sip from his goblet, then set it down.

“I know about Chaos,” he continued. “About twenty years ago, I was one of those

who went into Castle Drachenfels to clear up the mess. I’d enlisted in the Imperial

guard to fight for the Emperor—this was in the days of Luitpold—to defend him and

the Empire. I was young and innocent, but I grew out of both. All my ideas about the

world were turned upside down when we rode into the Grey Mountains and

discovered the impossible creatures that lived in the fortress of the Great Enchanter.

We tortured them, hung them, burned them, but we couldn’t wipe them from our

memories. They were more than monstrous, more than bestial, more than evil. They

were the exact opposite of everything human. They were corrupted by Chaos.”

“And they are here in Altdorf,” said Konrad, “plotting against the Emperor.”

22

“There are always plots against the Emperor,” said Taungar, very calmly.

“The skaven are going to replace him with a double.”

“He can’t be any worse than Karl-Franz.”

Konrad stared at Taungar in astonishment. This was not the reaction he had

expected from a member of the Imperial guard. He had only mentioned Gaxar’s

conspiracy because he needed Taungar’s assistance, and that assistance would have

little to do with protecting Karl-Franz; but by focusing on this aspect, he had believed

that Taungar would help him. What he needed was someone who knew Altdorf,

someone who would know how to locate the hidden passages beneath the city.

“What has the Emperor ever done for me?” asked Taungar, noticing Konrad’s

bewildered expression. “I have loyally served the Empire for a quarter of a century,

but I am still only a sergeant. The cobalt plume is all I shall ever wear because I was

not born into the right family. It took me a long time to realize, Konrad, but the only

person to serve is yourself. I owe allegiance to no one but myself. Whatever I do in

the future, it will only be in my own best interests.”

“But… what if the Empire is engulfed by the legions of Chaos… if we all

become slaves of darkness?”

“We are all slaves without knowing it. Is one master worse than another?”

“We can’t allow the triumph of Chaos!”

“That’s all a myth spread by our rulers to make us obey them. We live in fear

while they live in luxury.”

“What about Praag? That was no myth. You said you almost died! And what

about all the foul creatures that you slew at Castle Drachenfels?”

“Fighting for a so-called just cause has given me nothing but pain and torment.

Why should I care what happens to the Emperor or the Empire? While I still live, and

whatever happens, more than half my life is already over, I want the best for me.”

Taungar’s words resonated in Konrad’s mind, because they were so similar to his

own recent thoughts. His priority was to rescue Elyssa, and he wondered what price

he was prepared to pay for her safety. If it were a case of the Emperor’s life for the

girl’s, then there was no question but that he would choose Elyssa. It seemed almost

like heresy to admit it, but there would be another Emperor after Karl-Franz,

someone else to act as a symbolic head of the Empire. There was, however, only one

Elyssa.

Such thoughts were no mere speculation. Gaxar had been plotting against the

Emperor—and Elyssa had been in the same subterranean chamber as the grey seer.

“I’m telling you this,” Taungar continued, “because I don’t want you to waste as

much of your life as I have mine.”

Konrad shook his head. “No, no. We must be able to do both, to fight against

Chaos and to further our own aims. The two are not opposite ambitions.”

“You don’t understand. You are so like me, Konrad, so like the way I was.”

Taungar stared intently at Konrad as he spoke, and he gripped both the younger

man’s wrists with his hands. “You must let me prove to you what I am saying. Once

you have seen the evidence, you will be convinced.”

This was not what Konrad had expected, and he realized he would get no help

from Taungar. He was alone—as always. There was only one person who knew of

23

Elyssa or cared about her, and that was himself. Whatever must be done, he was the

only one who could and would make the attempt.

Konrad shook his hands free and stood up. “I’m going back,” he said.

“It would be best if you came with me,” said Taungar. There was no need for him

to add any more. Konrad was aware that the sergeant knew he must have been

involved in yesterday’s prison break, and that he could betray Konrad if he chose.

Reaching for his tankard and draining it, Konrad knew that he had little choice.

He was unarmed, but if necessary he was confident that he could take care of

Taungar; but another death would only add to his difficulties.

“The gentleman we shall visit also happens to be on good terms with Matthias,

who is the advisor to the Grand Theogonist,” said Taungar. “If you wish, you can tell

him your story about this impostor, and it will be passed on through the usual

channels. That is the only way to get a hearing, because who would believe a trooper

or even a sergeant in the Imperial guard?”

He took a final sip of his wine, then stood up, and Konrad could at last make out

the design on his gold tiepin: it showed two naked women embracing one another.

Taungar smiled and added, “But I think we will be able to persuade you that your

true interests lie elsewhere. Shall we go?”

They made their way through the crowd. Taungar went first, and he looked

around to make sure that Konrad was following. As he did so, he collided with the

blonde girl carrying the tray. She slipped and the tray fell from her hands, the pewter

tankards spilling their contents over the floor. There was silence in the taproom for a

moment, as people glanced around, and then the conversations, the laughter, the

disagreements continued.

Taungar swore and wiped at the drops of ale which had splattered across his

trousers, then stepped around the girl, who was kneeling on the ground and picking

up the empty tankards.

Konrad stopped and looked down at the girl. Now it was not Krysten who he was

reminded of, but himself. He remembered all the years he had worked in

Brandenheimer’s tavern, when he had been no more than a slave, when he had been

beaten and kicked for every little thing that went wrong—and even when things did

not go wrong.

“Trudi!” shouted a stocky, balding man who hurried from the other end of the

inn. “Now what have you done?”

He was the landlord, and Konrad knew that the girl would be in for a thrashing.

He stepped forward. Tonight it would be the landlord’s turn for a beating.

“I’m sorry, Herr Runze,” she said.

“So am I,” said the man. “Ah well, it was only the slops. This lot can’t tell the

difference by this time of night.”

Runze turned and headed back the way he had come, and Konrad unclenched his

fists. Trudi glanced up at him and she smiled once more, and for a moment she

looked exactly like Krysten—the hair, the face, the eyes, the expression.

Konrad glanced away, then followed Taungar out of the door and into the night.

24

Konrad wondered if he should simply slip away from Taungar and quit the Imperial

guard, but realized that would leave him in a worse situation than ever. If he did not

return to the palace, he would have no base from which to operate. He would be

unable to remain in the city because he would be hunted down by the Imperial guard

as a deserter. He would have nowhere to go, no contacts, no money, no weapons, and

without any of these his chances of ever finding Elyssa became more remote.

The fact that Taungar was not a loyal member of the guard might prove to be to

Konrad’s advantage. From the way the sergeant had spoken, he must have been

engaged in some form of criminal activity. That was surely what he meant when he

had claimed that from now on he would only be acting in his own best interests.

Altdorf was a port, so perhaps he was involved with smuggling. Imperial duties on

certain kinds of imported goods were very high, and fortunes could be made by those

able to supply such luxuries at reduced prices. And members of a smuggling gang

were more likely to know about the secret subterranean city beneath Altdorf than the

Imperial guard.

Taungar must be taking him to meet his other employer, the head of the illicit

organization for which he worked. It would make sense that such a man would know

the adviser to the Grand Theogonist of the Cult of Sigmar, because the most wealthy

and influential people frequently had far less respect for the law than the lower

orders. Konrad remembered how Litzenreich had said that laws were made by such

people for their own benefit. Konrad was inclined to agree. Even should prominent

citizens happen to be discovered breaking the law, at worst they would be judged by

their equals and punished in the most lenient fashion. Not so a member of the more

numerous, less prosperous part of society. No matter how minor their transgression,

they would be dealt with very severely—probably painfully, and possibly even

fatally.

As a member of the Imperial guard, Konrad’s pay was very little, and he would

receive none of it until he had served for a month. Whatever happened, he doubted he

would still be in Altdorf by then, and he was not averse to earning a few crowns now.

The mercenaries on the northern frontier were always dreaming of ways to earn their

fortunes. Even Wolf had not been immune to such financial ambition, with his

expedition to discover ancient dwarf gold and gems in a lost temple in the mountains

of Kislev. Wolf and Konrad and Anvila had indeed found such a forgotten temple,

but there had been no buried hoard of priceless treasure—only a horde of cave-

dwelling goblins.

It was over five years since Elyssa had been taken prisoner. Konrad tried not to

consider the horrendous ordeals she must inevitably have endured during that time.

Now that he knew she was still alive, all his senses told him not to waste a moment in

finding and releasing her. But when he considered the position logically, he realized

that compared to all the tortures that the girl had already suffered, an extra few days

could make very little difference.

The only problem might be that Skullface had left the city since last night, taking

his captive with him. If so, Konrad was already too late. Otherwise, during the

coming days, he would have time to think more clearly of what he should do and

make his plans accordingly. If he did succeed in tracking down the creature he had

25

named Skullface, how could he kill such a being, one that could pull an arrow from

its heart and show not a trace of a wound…?

He remembered the preternaturally thin figure, apparently the only human who

had taken part in the massacre and destruction of Konrad’s village. So human, yet so

alien. When he had drawn the black arrow from his bloodless chest, he had examined

the crest before snapping the shaft. It was as if he had recognized the gold crest.

Wolf, too, seemed to know the design when he had seen it on Konrad’s quiver.

Konrad yawned as he walked by Taungar’s side through the city. He had not slept

properly since the night before last and he felt exhausted. He was not as fit as he had

been on the frontier, his strength having being sapped during his weeks of capture by

Kastring’s band of raiders, and then his vitality had been almost drained by the

bronze armour in which he had been imprisoned. It was less than two weeks since he

had arrived in Altdorf, and while he had been in the guard he had done his best to

rebuild his muscles and restore his stamina.

The wounds he had suffered during the underground battle with the pygmy beast

creatures had been superficial, only bites and scratches. Such apparently innocuous

injuries could often prove the most dangerous, however. The saliva from an enemy’s

bite might be venomous, a lethal poison which could kill very slowly and extremely

painfully. But the teeth and talons of the flesh-eaters Konrad had defeated last night

seemed to have borne no such deadly toxins; the injuries to his right arm and hand

were well on their way towards healing. Early during his time in Kislev, Konrad had

almost lost that arm as a result of a severe wound which had started to turn

gangrenous. The limb had been saved by an elf with magical healing skills, and ever

since then Konrad’s right arm had recovered from its wounds faster than the rest of

his body.

Elyssa, too, had possessed latent powers of healing. She had soothed the wounds

he had suffered when slaying the beastman which attacked her. Perhaps, somehow, it

was her own magical talents which had kept her alive when the village had been

overrun by the feral forces of Chaos.

Konrad did not like being in towns and cities, the way they were so enclosed.

Altdorf’s fortifications seemed to be there to keep its inhabitants inside, not to

exclude enemies. He felt that almost anyone he encountered could be an enemy, and

there Was no way of telling who. Out on the frontier it was easy to distinguish one’s

foe; not so in a city. There were no beastmen, at least not on the surface, there were

only humans—but humans were the most treacherous, most deadly adversaries of all.

Because of its wealth, Altdorf had more than its share of thieves and robbers. The

main streets were wide, kept lit throughout the night, and regularly patrolled, but

Konrad kept listening for the sound of footsteps on the cobbles behind them. Any

villains who fancied their chances would get far more than they could have expected

if they tried to attack him and Taungar, although it would take a gang of footpads to

attempt an assault on two men who were so obviously fit and so obviously sober. But

criminals did not necessarily have much sense, and Konrad kept glancing all around

and keeping wide of every alley that they passed on their journey. They remained

within the northern sector of the city, making for the mercantile area, and at last their

destination came in sight.

26

The house stood at the top of a hill some two hundred yards from the city

boundary, lying behind its own white walls, which were a replica of those of the city.

There was also a moat and a drawbridge, although the moat lay inside the walls, and

the bridge was only crossed once access had been gained through the heavy wooden

gate. Taungar had made their presence there known by using the heavy iron knocker,

which was fashioned in the shape of Sigmar’s legendary warhammer, Ghal-maraz.

A slim boy, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old, immediately opened the door,

bowing low to admit them. He was clad all in white—slippers, tight breeches, loose

tunic, a round cap—and he led the way to a building in the centre of the walled

garden. The grounds were lit by a series of lanterns, all of them in the pattern of the

fabled double-tailed comet which had lit the night sky above the Old World at the

time of Sigmar’s birth. Twin beams of light shone from each of the lamps,

illuminating the impressive gardens.

There were several fountains, and at their centres were various grotesque replicas

of dying orcs and goblins. Water sprayed from different parts of these statues, in

imitation of geysers of blood spurting from terrible wounds. They were evidently

representations of the goblinoid swarms who had fallen victim to Sigmar’s vengeful

hammer at the battle of Black Fire Pass. The fountains fed a number of streams

which meandered through the grounds, and these were crossed by bridges each of

which was a miniature of one of Altdorf’s six bridges.

Between these tiny streams, which flowed into the inner moat, lay islands of

exotic trees and bushes. Although it was winter, some of these still bore ripe fruit

upon their branches.

The house lay in the centre of the gardens, white walled and red roofed. The

walls were built of bricks, each of which was embossed with a twin-tailed comet

motif; each of the tiles was in the shape of a double hammerhead; the windows were

shaped like eight-pointed stars. Another small bridge had to be crossed before the

house was reached. The servant opened the door, bowed, and gestured for Taungar

and Konrad to enter the hallway.

“May I take your coats, gentlemen?” said another servant, who was waiting in the

entrance hall.

Konrad realized this one was a girl, identically clad and of a similar age to the

other servant, her hair tucked beneath her white cap. She hung their coats on an

elaborate stand, and led them along a wide passageway which was panelled in dark

wood, hung with tapestries and paintings depicting the various triumphs of Sigmar.

Several crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the candle flames flickering.

She knocked at a door near the end, pushed it open, then bowed for Konrad and

Taungar to enter. They went into a large room, the walls of which were lined with

fancy cabinets, carved chests and various kinds of elaborately decorated furniture.

“Rolf! How wonderful to see you!”

Taungar was greeted by a man who hurried towards him. He was of average

height, but far more than average girth. It seemed he was trying to disguise his width

behind the loose pale blue robe that he wore, but without much success. He must

have been about fifty, and his fat cheeks were a web of broken veins. His hair was

grey and thinning, tied back behind his head with a ribbon which matched his robe.

He carried a ruby-studded silver goblet in one ring-laden hand.

27

He threw his arms around Taungar, hugging him close and kissing him on both

cheeks. Konrad wondered if he could be from Bretonnia, where that was the kind of

thing men did to other men.

“Hello, Werner,” said Taungar. “This is Konrad, the man I spoke to you about.”

He turned to Konrad. “This is Werner Zuntermein,” he said.

“Ah, Konrad!” said Zuntermein, moving towards him. “Delighted to make your

acquaintance.”

Konrad moved back in order to avoid an embrace, but instead Zuntermein raised

his free hand and stroked Konrad’s face.

“What has happened? Have you been fighting?” He sighed and shook his head.

“Boys will be boys.” He stood gazing at Konrad. “How handsome. And your eyes,

how remarkable!”

Konrad’s eyes were different colours. They both appeared to be green, but on

closer inspection the left one was gold. At one time, it was more than merely the

colours which had been different. His left eye had given him warning of danger,

because frequently he could see what was going to happen and act accordingly. The

gift of foresight had grown more erratic over the years and he had finally lost the

talent when Litzenreich had extracted him from the suit of bronze armour.

Konrad leaned back out of Zuntermein’s reach.

“A pity about the scars,” Zuntermein added, “but nothing in life is perfect, alas.

Do be seated. A drink?” Without waiting for a reply, he snapped his fingers and yet

another servant filled two bejewelled goblets which were identical to the one which

he held.

Konrad sat down, as far away from Zuntermein as possible. The servant handed

him a goblet, which was probably worth as much as he could earn in five years as an

Imperial guard. Whatever it was that Zuntermein did, it was certainly a lucrative

profession. The servant was dressed in the same style as the other two, but Konrad

could not work out whether the third one was male or female.

“Rolf has told me that you could be one of us,” said Zuntermein, as he settled

down on a couch which could have seated two people of normal dimensions.

“A follower of Sigmar?” said Konrad.

“Not,” replied Zuntermein, “exactly.”

Konrad raised his drink to his lips, and the spicy aroma which assailed his nostrils

made him hesitate. He could tell that the pale liqueur was very strong, but this was a

time when he needed to keep all his wits. He held the silver to his mouth for a

second, as if drinking, then lowered it. Taungar had not even finished his wine in the

tavern, but now he was swallowing the exotic drink as though he were dying of thirst.

“You know the advisor to the Grand Theogonist?” said Konrad, deciding that it

was time for him to take the initiative.

“Matthias? Yes, I do. But he is away at present, with the Emperor.”

“The skaven are planning to kill the Emperor and replace him with a

doppelganger.”

Zuntermein said nothing for a few seconds. He sipped at his wine. “Really?”

“Is that all you have to say? We must warn the Emperor!”

28

“If you know of this scheme, Konrad, and if it is not merely wild rumour as so

many of these stories are, I am sure that those who protect dear Karl-Franz are

equally aware of what is happening. If there aren’t at least a dozen threats to the

Emperor every week, then it’s a very dull eight days. Never fear, he is the most

heavily guarded man in the Old World.”

If those who defended the Emperor were as concerned for his safety as Taungar

and Zuntermein, then Karl-Franz was in deep trouble, thought Konrad. But he said

nothing else; he had more important matters to think about than the fate of the

Emperor. He took a mouthful of his wine, and it was as strong as he had suspected.

He swallowed it slowly, feeling the warmth trickle down his throat and radiate

throughout his body. Taungar, he noticed, was holding out his empty goblet for the

servant to refill.

“You served in Kislev, I believe?” said Zuntermein. “You were there during the

Praag siege?”

Konrad nodded, twice.

“You have experienced more of the world already than most people do in a

lifetime,” Zuntermein continued. “The real world, that is. We know what it’s like,

what is happening and what will happen. We—” his idle gesture took in Konrad,

Taungar and himself, “know. And we can take advantage of what we know.”

“And what’s that?”

“Chaos,” said Zuntermein.

Konrad made no response.

“The Chaos Wastes,” said Zuntermein, swirling around the contents of his goblet

and staring into them. “What did you think you were doing there, Konrad?

Maintaining the frontier against the northern invaders? Keeping Chaos at bay? But

Chaos can’t be held back by force of arms. It knows no boundaries. It’s like the air

we breathe. It’s everywhere. It’s here in the Empire, here in Altdorf.” He looked up,

meeting Konrad’s gaze. “Here in this room.”

Konrad glanced at Taungar, who said nothing. All he did was smile and sup at his

spiced wine.

“The air we breathe,” repeated Zuntermein. “Just as we need air to live, so we

need Chaos. We are one and the same.”

Konrad put down his goblet on the enamelled table by his side and started to rise,

then decided against leaving. It would be a futile gesture, because he had nowhere to

go. He had decided to accompany Taungar, and now he must stay and listen to what

Zuntermein had to say even though—as in the tavern earlier—this was not what he

had expected to hear. He felt calm, relaxed and was under no threat; he might as well

stay to finish his drink.

Zuntermein said, “Some believe that mankind is a creation of Chaos, and that is

why humans make its best servants. But Chaos can also serve us, and the rewards are

not insignificant.”

Konrad laughed briefly, contemptuously.

“Do not mock, Konrad,” said Zuntermein, calmly. “You have already been

touched by Chaos.”

“What do you mean?” Konrad demanded—but he knew the answer.

29

And Zuntermein knew that he knew. He smiled at Konrad, then sipped at his

wine.

“You can’t fight it, Konrad. You are part of Chaos, it is part of you.”

“What do you want?”

“We can help each other, Konrad. Join us. There has been much pain in your life.

It is time that was balanced out. It is a time for enjoyment, for pleasure.”

“No,” said Konrad, and he did stand up. “I don’t think that we have anything

further to discuss, Herr Zuntermein.”

“Werner, call me Werner.” He also stood up. “I hoped that we could be good

friends, Konrad.”

“You hoped wrong.”

“At least let us not part as enemies.”

Zuntermein thrust out his right hand. Konrad accepted it automatically, and they

shook in military fashion, palms gripping wrists. Zuntermein’s hand felt warm, very

warm, and it was growing warmer while Konrad’s wrist started to become cooler. He

tried to pull free, but could not. His whole arm had been rendered immobile and was

being drained of all vitality.

Zuntermein was a sorcerer…

“I know where she is,” he said, and he released his grip.

Konrad staggered back, rubbing at his icy right arm with his left, trying to restore

it to life.

“Who?” asked Konrad, knowing there could be but one answer.

“The one you have been thinking of.”

“Where is she? Take me to her!”

“It is not so simple as that, Konrad.” Zuntermein closed his eyes and touched the

fingertips of his right hand to his forehead. “Something might be arranged, however.”

He opened his eyes, and he smiled. “In fact, you shall meet her—if you promise to

come to one of our social gatherings and give serious consideration to joining us.”

“I’ll do whatever you say, whatever you want.”

“I’m glad,” said Zuntermein. “Take Konrad back now, Rolf. I will send a

message in a few days.”

Taungar rose and walked towards the door, and the servant opened it for him.

Konrad followed him out into the hallway. He kept rubbing at his forearm, and the

numbness was gradually retreating. He had so much to ask, but he did not know

where to begin.

“A few days,” whispered Zuntermein, and he kissed him on his left cheek—but

Konrad stepped back in time to avoid a second kiss on his other cheek.

30

CHAPTER FOUR

Another dawn, another unfurling of the Imperial ensigns high above the palace, the

capital, the Empire, and Konrad gazed over to the north where he could just make out

the red roof of Zuntermein’s home.

Never trust a sorcerer…

But he had no real alternative. He could never hope to find Elyssa alone.

He had only once mentioned the girl to anyone, when Wolf had examined the

black quiver and Konrad told him that Elyssa had given it to him.

When he had touched Konrad, Zuntermein discovered what had been foremost in

his mind—and that was Elyssa. The sorcerer was certainly using what he had found

to his own advantage, in order to persuade Konrad to join him, and he could so easily

be lying. How could he have known where Elyssa was? But Konrad would only

return to Zuntermein’s house if she was there. If she was not, he would leave—but

not before he had taken revenge for the wizard’s mendacity.

A few days, Zuntermein had said, in a few days he would know.

Konrad glanced at Taungar, who stood to attention, saluting the embroidered

standards as they were unfurled. The sergeant had enlisted him in the Imperial guard,

and now he wanted to recruit him as a Chaos cultist…

Could Zuntermein really be a Chaos worshipper? Konrad doubted it. He

remembered Kastring and his pagan warband, and he had seen countless other

cultists over the years. He knew the price of their blasphemous creed. It cost them

everything. They were transformed, becoming part-human, part-animal, until they

were no more than the beastmen who were the original creations of Chaos, twisted

and mis-shapen in mind as well as in body.

Behind his respectable facade, with his house disguised by the holy symbols of

Sigmar Heldenhammer, Werner Zuntermein was playing at being an acolyte of

Chaos. It was probably the latest fashion in Altdorf amongst the indolent rich.

Somehow Taungar had become involved in the charade, probably because there was

a way he could make money out of it.

“I want some money,” Konrad told the sergeant, as again they were the last two

to leave the ramparts. “I also need a pass; I have to go into the city today.”

Taungar looked at him. After what Zuntermein had said—although he could not

have been aware who the wizard had meant by “she”—he knew that Konrad would

return to the palace. He nodded.

“Five crowns enough?” he asked. “I can excuse you from this afternoon’s duties.”

It was Konrad’s turn to nod, and after a morning spent teaching axe combat

techniques he left the palace. Like the previous evening, he was clad in civilian

clothes because he was not on official duties. He headed across Altdorf, and he felt as

31

uneasy as he had done last night. He wished he could be somewhere else, anywhere

except the largest city in the Empire.

The only other city in which he had spent much time was Praag, and that had

been under very different circumstances. After it had first been captured and

occupied by the regiments of Chaos two hundred years ago, then retaken, Praag had

been razed to the ground and completely rebuilt, which meant that most of the

buildings in Altdorf were far older. The streets of the capital followed a pattern laid

down thousands of years ago, and some of the houses were on sites which had been

in constant habitation since the days of Sigmar.

Yet it was not the buildings, no matter how old, which affected Konrad, nor the

streets and alleys that paved the ancient earth which had not seen the light of day for

centuries. The whole weight of history was like a miasma which he found

overwhelmingly oppressive. He felt as if he could move nowhere without bumping

into someone; and even when there was nobody close, the ghosts of so many

millennia seemed to impede his progress. Even the desolate winter plains of Kislev

seemed far more inviting by comparison.

It could only have been the concentration of people that was so disturbing, and he

remembered what Zuntermein had said, that humans were a creation of Chaos…

Could that be true? If so, then this was the greatest concentration of Chaos energy

he had ever encountered, and perhaps it explained his reaction.

Because Konrad was now himself a creature of Chaos, and like repelled like— or

so Litzenreich had once said. Was that not why the forces of Chaos were so divided

and forever fighting amongst themselves, the legions of each benighted god in eternal

war with the battalions of the other dark deities? They feuded incessantly, one evil

army against another.

Litzenreich had also claimed that evil was not a synonym for Chaos. Chaos

simply existed, it was mankind who interpreted that existence. Litzenreich had

compared Chaos to water; and Zuntermein had compared it to air; and Konrad

believed neither of them.

He had become trapped inside a suit of bronze armour—of Chaos armour. That

meant he had been contaminated by Chaos. Litzenreich had freed him from his metal

prison, but he had used warpstone to do so… and later revealed that the enigmatic

substance originally came from the wastelands and was believed to be the cause of all

mutations, to have created the beastmen.

Konrad was doubly damned.

And Zuntermein had detected this.

He had used his thaumaturgical senses to do so—Konrad was convinced. It was

not that the sorcerer recognized someone who was as infected as himself. Zuntermein

had made his fortune through the application of his magical abilities, not through

Chaos worship, because such corruption would surely have taken its toll upon his

physical form. It was his wizardry which had enabled him to delve into Konrad’s

thoughts, and it was the same talent which had led him to locate Elyssa so swiftly—if

indeed he had done so.

Having attempted not to think of the girl and what might happen in the next few

days, although without much success, Konrad was now trying to concentrate on

another matter. He had originally come to Altdorf for one reason, because of the

32

shield that Silver Eye had carried when they fought beneath Middenheim. Konrad

wanted to know where the skaven had found the shield, and he also hoped to discover

something about its gold emblem. This was a subject which had intrigued him for

over a decade, ever since Elyssa had first given him the bow, the ten arrows, the

quiver of rippled black hide. Now, at last, here was his opportunity…

Except for the Imperial Palace and the Cathedral of Sigmar, the College of Heraldry

was the oldest building that Konrad had ever seen. It was hidden away in a back

street, which must once have been much wider, and he missed the turning at first and

had to retrace his steps and walk down a winding side road. All the other buildings

nearby had been built and rebuilt many times, but the ancient college was half-

sunken beneath the ground as if it recognized its age and was trying to bury itself.

The road outside had risen over the centuries, so that the lower floors of the college

had become basements, as the rubbish and debris of the city piled up and the level of

the surface had risen. The roof was covered in slates and tiles, every one of which

appeared to be of a different colour and size, their variety demonstrating how many

times it had been repaired. All the walls and arches and gables were out of true. The

whole building was bent with antiquity, like a cripple who somehow managed to

survive despite all his deformities.

Konrad climbed down the worn stone steps and knocked on the door. There was

at least one other level below, and he noticed that the doorframe was set in what had

once been a window. The wood crumbled beneath his knuckles. There was no reply.

He pushed on the ancient door, it creaked back on its rusty hinges, and he stepped

into the gloom.

It was both dusty and damp inside, and Konrad waited a few seconds for his eyes

to adjust to the darkness. He could see a glimmer of light ahead in the distance, and

he made his way along the narrow passageway. The floor was uneven, the walls

crooked. As he became more used to the lack of illumination, he noticed that the

corridor was lined with plaques, some round, some in the shape of a stylized shield,

and each of them had a different pattern painted upon it. They were all coats of arms,

he realized, hundreds upon hundreds of them; judging by the way the paint had faded

or peeled away they must have been very old. There were a number of gaps on the

walls, where the shields had fallen off and not been replaced.

As he was gazing at the display, he trod on something which broke under his

weight. He stopped to inspect the object. It was one of the missing shields, decorated

with a silver cross on a red background, with some type of hunting bird silhouetted in

black in one quarter. The other three designs could not be made out because the paint

had come off when he stepped on it. He set the two broken pieces of the rusty plaque

down in the corner and kept on walking towards the light.

The corridor opened up into a larger chamber, the walls of which were lined with

books, thousands upon thousands of them. They were arrayed on shelves which

stretched from floor to ceiling. The shelves were packed solid, and more volumes lay

upon the ground, stacks and stacks of them piled high on each other. Nothing was

straight. All the shelves were tilted at various angles; and even the piles of books on

the floor were not vertical but leaned one way or another. Everything was covered in

dust and cobwebs, as though nothing had been touched for aeons.

33

Yet in the very centre of the room, at a desk which was laden with heaps of

manuscripts and documents which spilled over onto the floor, sat two men. There

was a lantern between the pair, and they were so engrossed in their studies that they

seemed unaware of their visitor. They were each poring over different volumes,

making notations on the parchments before them.

“Good afternoon,” said Konrad, his voice sounding very loud in the unnatural

silence of the library.

Neither man took any notice for several seconds, and then the younger one

looked up. He was only younger when compared to his colleague, being about sixty

years old, his hair grey as if with dust. His companion appeared to be at least half as

old again, his skin as wrinkled and thin as ancient parchment, and he kept on with

what he was doing.

“Have you come about the drains?” asked the younger librarian.

“No,” answered Konrad. “I’ve come about a coat of arms.”

The man sighed, pushing his spectacles to the end of his nose and rubbing at his

eyes. “What a pity. There are three feet of water in the lowest level, you know, and it

can only get worse. Some of the material we have lost is priceless, priceless. None of

it can be replaced, you know.”

“The coat of arms?” Konrad reminded him.

“You have come to the wrong place. These are the archives. If you wish to buy a

coat of arms, you must go to the new building.”

“I’ve been there; they sent me here.”

The “new building” had been at least two hundred years old. It was in a much

better state of repair, and with more people working there. The clerk at the first desk

had shaken his head when he heard Konrad’s request, then directed him to the

original building, and charged him a crown for doing so.

“What for?” asked the archivist, sliding his spectacles back into place.

“I’ve seen an emblem,” said Konrad, “and I want you to identify it. You can do

that for me?”

“You will have to pay, you know. We are obliged to make a charge for our

expertise.”

“I can pay,” said Konrad, jingling the four crowns in his hand.

The archivist selected a sheet of paper, then beckoned for Konrad to come nearer.

The older scribe had still not looked up. He remained hunched over the single desk,

parchment in front of him, his body leaning across to the massive book next to it.

“Can you describe the crest to me? You have to be absolutely accurate, you

know, in every detail. Some coats of arms are so similar to others than only a

specialist can detect the difference.”

“It’s a very simple design.”

“What seems simple to a layman may be very complex to an expert.”

Konrad glanced at the scribe, but his face remained expressionless.

“Let us start with the tinctures.”

“What?”

“The colours, you know.” The man gestured to the row of quills in front of him,

and Konrad realized that they must all be dipped in different coloured pots of ink.

34

“There were only two,” said Konrad, “gold and black.”

“Or and sable, that is what we call them.”

“And the design is of a pair of crossed arrows—”

“Fleche en croix, you mean.”

“With a mailed fist in between.”

“Poing maille.”

“The arrows and the fist are in gold. The rest is in black. Or that’s the way it is

usually.”

“Usually?”

“The pattern was reversed on the set of arrows. The arrows were of black wood,

with a narrow band of gold near the flights, and the emblem was carved into the gold

to show the wood beneath.”

“So it was sable dans or on the fleches, instead of or dans sable?”

“If you say so.”

“Where else have you seen this coat of arms? On an ecusson?”

“What?”

“A shield.”

“Yes. Gold on black. Also on a bow and a quiver.”

“An archet and a carquois.” The man made another note, then began asking more

questions: “At what angle are the arrows? Do the arrows point up or down? Are the

arrowheads very large in proportion to the shafts? Are the flights very large in

proportion to the shafts? Which hand is the fist, dexter or sinister? Can you see the

fingers? On which side is the thumb? Where is the base of the fist in relation to the

tips of the arrows? What size is the fist relative to the lengths of the arrows?”

Konrad answered all the questions as best he could, while the scribe made a

notation on the paper at each reply.

He wondered how long the process would have taken if the pattern were more

elaborate.

“Good.” The man chose another sheet of paper and took another feathered pen

from the row of inkpots in the stand in front of him. A minute later he said: “Like

this?”

He gestured for Konrad to look at what he had been doing. He had drawn the

arrow and fist design, using black ink upon bleached paper, and it was exactly as

Konrad remembered.

“That’s it.”

“It is probably quite old. Later crests have tended to become more complicated,

partly for aesthetic reasons, partly because all of the more basic designs have been

claimed.”

“There is no such coat of arms.”

It was the old man who had spoken. He had set down his quill, gathered up the

book he was studying, wearily risen from his seat and glanced at his companion’s

illustration. His body was as hunched as if he were still bowed over his work, his

torso leaning to one side, and not under the weight of the heavy volume.

It was almost as if he had contorted himself to fit in with the configurations of the

library; or perhaps he had studied here for so long that his whole shape had become

35

stooped and curved whilst the pillars and bricks of the college had been similarly

twisted and distorted by the remorseless pressure of time.

“But I’ve seen it,” said Konrad.

“You may have seen the same pattern on various weaponry,” replied the younger

man, watching as his colleague slowly shuffled across the chamber, “but that does

not mean they are part of a coat of arms.”

“Can’t you check? Look it up in one of your books?”

“There is no need. Herr Renemann is an encyclopedia of heraldry. If he says there

is no such coat of arms, then there is no such coat of arms.”

“He can’t know them all.”

“He does.”

“But it could be an old crest, one which no longer exists.”

“They always exist. The family may die out, you know, but their coat of arm

remains. We have it in our files. Somewhere.”

“Then it’s from outside the Empire.”

“No. Our records cover the Old World, from Albion to the Border Princes, from

Kislev to the Estalian Kingdoms. We do not want to risk bestowing the same crest in

Altdorf that might already belong to a noble house in Magritta, for example.

Although that is not our department anymore.” The man shook his head sadly. “The

coat of arms which you have described does not exist. If you wish, however, you

could take the necessary steps to bring it into existence. We could have such a crest

assigned to you and your descendants. We can still do that here, you know.” He

brightened up at the thought, nodding in approval of his own scheme.

Renemann was wrong, of that Konrad was absolutely certain. The mailed fist and

crossed arrow pattern was more than a mere design on a few armaments.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “How much do I owe you?”

“Two crowns?”

Konrad dropped two coins from his right hand to his left. “You mentioned

families dying out. Do you keep records of the families who have a coat of arms?”

“Yes.”

“I want to know about a family called Kastring,” he said.

“Where are they from?”

“A village in Ostland, near a town called Ferlangen.”

It was his own village, the village where he had lived for as long as he could

remember—although he never felt as if he had truly belonged there. If the village had

a name, Konrad never knew it. And he himself had no name until Elyssa gave him

one. Elyssa, whose family name was Kastring…

The scribe pushed his spectacles to the end of his nose, gazing over them as he

began slowly surveying the shelves of the library. He rose from his seat for the first

time and took a single pace towards the nearest line of shelves. He gazed up and

down and across for several seconds, then turned towards the end of the room by the

entrance. He was much too far away to read what was written on the spines of those

books which still had visible lettering. It was almost as if he expected to find the

correct reference work without moving.

36

“Ah-ha!” he said, and it seemed that he did know precisely which volume

contained the Kastring lineage. He started towards the distant shelves, waving for

Konrad to follow him.

“There,” said the man, as they reached the overflowing ranks of books. “Five

rows up from this one, seven, eight, nine books along from the upside down one with

red leather binding. You see it?”

“The one called Chron Ost XXXVI, Jud-Kel?”

The man glanced up at Konrad, and he nodded. “Get it down, will you? You are

probably more agile than me.”

None of the other volumes nearby had titles which were even remotely similar. It

seemed that the books were distributed at random throughout the library. The one

that the scribe had specified was too high to reach, and Konrad looked around for a

ladder. There must be one, because that was the only way access could ever be

gained to the upper shelves.

“Use these,” said the man, tapping the pile of books on the floor next to him.

“If you say so.”

Konrad climbed up onto one of the lower stacks of books, then onto a higher one,

using the crumbling ancient volumes as a flight of stairs. Even standing on the tallest

pile, he could not quite reach what he wanted, and so he put one foot on top of the

books on the nearest shelf, stretched up and managed to slide his fingertips under the

spine of the necessary volume. He eased the book out inch by inch, caught it as it fell,

then jumped down to the floor.

“We only keep duplicates of the more recent material,” said the scribe, as he put

the register on top of a bundle of decaying books and opened the first page. “The

originals are in the new building. This seems to need updating, but that is no real

surprise. We are somewhat understaffed, as you may have noticed.”

He began leafing through the volume. “Here—Kastring.”

At the top of the page was inscribed the crest which Konrad recognized, a blue

diagonal band separating the two halves. The upper left of the shield showed two

towers linked by a crenellated wall, red upon white; the lower right showed a signet

ring, silver upon purple, and the crest on the ring was that of the Kastring coat of

arms.

“A castle and a ring,” commented the librarian, and he shook his head. “I do like

the way that the design must become forever smaller and smaller within the ring,

however. But what did you want to know?”

Konrad was at his side and already reading the last entry, which finished halfway

down the page. The volume did need updating: there was nothing about the Kastring

manor house being burned down, the family destroyed.

“According to this,” said Konrad, “Kastring had three sons—Wilhelm, Sigismund

and Friedrich. What about his daughter?”

“Let me see.” The man’s fingers traced the family tree. “Sir Wilhelm Kastring.

Married Ulrica Augenhaus of Middenheim. Eldest son named after his father, you

notice, as was his father before him. Two other sons.”

“Why isn’t the daughter mentioned? Because she was the youngest and her name

hasn’t been registered yet?”

37

“Possibly, although I doubt it. In a genealogical sense, you know, daughters are

not very important. The only role of a woman is to produce sons. It is through the

sons that the family name passes and the line continues. Daughters are frequently

regarded as an unnecessary expense, from the time of birth right up until their

wedding day, when a dowry has to be paid to the groom’s family in order to secure

the marriage. But even if there were a daughter to this Kastring family, she should be

registered for the sake of accuracy. Is that all?”

Konrad nodded, and the man closed the book and put his hand on it.

“Leave it. It needs bringing up to date. Perhaps someday…” He shrugged.

Konrad started counting out coins again. The librarian rubbed his hands together

to wipe off the dust and dirt. Konrad gave him the four crowns. Having paid for it, he

considered asking for the illustration of the mysterious crest, but he had no need of

such a reminder.

“Thank you,” said the man, tucking the coins into his tunic pocket. “If there is

ever anything else we can do for you, please do not hesitate to ask.”

The visit had been totally pointless. Konrad had been informed that Elyssa did

not exist and neither did the coat of arms—both of which he knew to be untrue.

“You are absolutely certain that there is no such crest?”

“If there is,” said the librarian, “then it is not human.”

Not human…

The words echoed in Konrad’s mind over the next two days. The librarian must

have been referring to the banners and standards which were borne by the warriors of

Chaos; but in Konrad’s experience, all such flags and emblems also contained the

blasphemous symbol of whatever unholy entity the berserk troops worshipped. The

crossed arrows and mailed fist device was not tainted by such depraved idolatry.

When Konrad had returned to his native village soon after the onslaught, the only

signs of habitation that had remained were the outlines of the houses and buildings

burned into the ground. Sir Wilhelm and Lady Ulrica must have died in the inferno

that had devoured the manor house, and until the day before yesterday Konrad

believed Elyssa had perished with her parents.

Her brothers had long before left the valley to make their way in the world— and

one of them was to become Konrad’s tormentor during the long and arduous trek

from Kislev into the Empire.

Konrad had been hostage to a band of Khorne acolytes, followers of the Blood

God whose campaign of mayhem and murder had taken them far across the border.

Gaxar was to blame for his capture. In his human disguise, the grey seer had

deceived Konrad, then knocked him unconscious. When he regained his senses, he

found himself a sacrificial offering to the huntsman of souls. But the leader of the

feral band still wore the Kastring crest upon his accoutrements, which Konrad had

recognized. That had saved his life—for a while.

Whether it was Wilhelm or Sigismund or Friedrich, he had already begun to pay

the high price of his obscene devotion. Kastring’s face and body had become

changed, with horns growing from his skull, fur from his flesh, and teeth that were

now fangs.

38

His marauding horde was a bestial rabble, yet it was Konrad who was treated as

the caged animal, to be tortured and abused. In the end he had taken his savage

revenge, slaying dozens of the dog-faced mutants in a bloody battle that rivalled their

own gory ceremonies. And the last one to die had been Kastring himself, impaled

upon Konrad’s lance—the bronze knight’s lance…

Before then, Kastring had spoken of Elyssa, and he had claimed that she was not

his true sister. Although Elyssa had been unaware of this, it seemed there was some

question over her legitimacy. Kastring himself was not sure of the exact details, but

he had maintained that Elyssa’s parentage was different from his and his brothers;

she was only his half-sister—if that. Perhaps he was correct, and this might explain

why her name was not recorded in the Kastring chronology.

Elyssa had found the bow and arrows deep in the cellars of the manor house, and

Konrad asked Kastring if he knew of the mailed fist and crossed arrow emblem.

An elf! Kastring had ventured. Some connection with an elf, could it be?

Were they elven implements that Konrad had seen? Was it an elven shield which

Silver Eye now used? Elves were as tall as humans, and so it could have been an

elven bow with which Konrad had taught himself archery.

Humans and elves could interbreed, he had once been told, so was it possible that

Elyssa’s father had been an elf?

Nothing human…

The words echoed in Konrad’s mind over the next two days—and then came

Zuntermein’s summons.

39

CHAPTER FIVE

The house was completely different.

The exterior was exactly the same as it had been three nights ago. Konrad and

Taungar were admitted within the outer walls by the same white-clad servant, who

led them through the illuminated gardens, across the miniature bridges over the

winding streams, and to the door of the house.

It was the interior which had been totally transformed.

The other young servant was waiting in the hallway for them, and this time she

was instantly recognizable as female. The white uniform had gone, replaced by a

pink silk robe which bared her right breast. Without a cap, her hair was also pink; it

had been dyed and hung halfway down her back. She reminded Konrad of someone,

or something, although he was unable to recall what it was.

“May I take your clothes, gentlemen?” she said.

The house had been very quiet a few days ago, but now it was filled with noise.

From along the passageway came the sounds of laughter and talking, the beat of a

heavy drum seeming to shake the whole building to its foundations. A strange sweet

smell filled the air, which was cloudy with faint trails of differently coloured smoke.

There could be no doubt that this was one of Zuntermein’s social gatherings. The

number of guests could be judged by the way that the clothes stand was so heavily

laden. Even the floor was piled with all kinds of garments, and not merely cloaks.

Konrad had removed his jerkin and handed it to the servant, who casually threw it

onto the ground. Then he noticed that Taungar had not stopped once his coat was off.

He continued discarding his clothes.

“Everything,” he said, gesturing for Konrad to strip off.

He was naked by now, except for the jewellery which he must always have worn,

even beneath his uniform. There were two silver bracelets above his elbows, with an

intricate insignia repeatedly etched into their surfaces, and from the gold chain

around his neck hung a pendant wrought into the same shape. It was a circle with

what could almost be the hilt of a sword projecting to the upper right, its pommel a

smaller circle. Konrad had encountered the emblem on pennants and banners carried

by many of the legions whose diabolic warriors he had fought and killed on the

frontier…

The servant girl handed Taungar a robe similar to the one that she wore. It was

pastel blue, and he pulled it over his head. “Come on,” he told Konrad, “don’t be

shy!”

The reason Konrad was reluctant to undress was because it would mean

surrendering the dagger he had hidden in his right boot—and also the one tucked

inside the waistband of his trousers.

40

He was almost certain that Zuntermein had lured him here under false pretences.

The likelihood that Elyssa would be in this mansion tonight was extremely remote.

But if she was, what Konrad must do was obvious: escape with her. How that could

be achieved was less obvious as yet, but weapons were surely essential.

And if Elyssa were here, it could only be by permission of Skull-face—who

would probably also be present.

Konrad had tried not to consider this possibility until now, because the image of

Skullface still chilled him to the very bone. Konrad had witnessed many dreadful

sights the day that his village had been destroyed by the rapacious horde of mutant

marauders, but the vision of the skeletal figure of Skullface, walking unharmed

through the flames of the Kastring manor house, had been the most frightening of all.

In the years since then, Konrad had observed many far more appalling feats of

endurance. He had seen creatures so badly hacked apart that they could only crawl on

the gory stumps of their legs or tentacles, but still they refused to die; he had seen

severed limbs take on lives of their own, becoming new recruits to the enemy

swarms; he had seen the dead rise and return to battle against the living, although

they were infested by worms and maggots, and rotting flesh fell off their bones as

they shambled into the fray.

Yet despite all this, Konrad was still haunted by the memory of Skullface. He had

often been scared by what he saw and encountered. Fear gave a warrior a certain

edge in combat, sharpening his senses and perceptions. The feral invaders seemed to

know neither fear nor terror, but that was because they were immune to such human

feelings. They were never scared, and they were never brave. All they seemed to live

for was to fight and to die, to kill and be killed. Often it seemed it did not matter who

suffered so long as the battle produced victims. Ally or enemy, the invaders would

kill either without favour, and they did not even care if it was they themselves who

were slaughtered.

Konrad would rather face a whole legion of such berserkers than encounter

Skullface once more…

Elyssa had been the most important person in his life. Without her, he would have

been nothing. Without her, he would probably have been dead—because he would

not have escaped when the whole village was massacred. Skullface was the most

terrifying being he had ever seen. To imagine Elyssa being his hostage for so long

was almost too repulsive to contemplate.

It was also because of Elyssa’s captor that Konrad was carrying the two hidden

knives. He had little hope of using the blades effectively, but he must make the

attempt. If Skullface could survive an arrow in the heart, a knife thrust would be as

harmless as a flea bite to a dragon.

There was no alternative except to do as Taungar instructed. Konrad removed his

clothes, slipping the second dagger into his left boot, exchanging his garments for a

long silk robe. His was vivid yellow, and—as with Taungar and the servant girl—it

was tailored so that the right side of his chest was bared. He felt a fool dressed in

such a way, but that was of no consequence. What he had said to Zuntermein three

nights ago was the truth: for Elyssa, he would do anything.

Tonight the candles in the chandeliers were red, casting a spectral hue across the

corridor as the girl led them along. The tapestries and paintings on the panelled walls

41

were also different from before. Instead of the triumphs of Sigmar, mankind’s

greatest hero, they displayed the obscene depths to which humanity could descend.

Konrad had never seen so many repulsive images, hardly believed that such vile

perversions could ever have been considered let alone performed. Men, women,

animals, all indulging in the most corrupt of fornications, each depraved scene was

more disgusting than the previous one. The pictures seemed to illustrate the manner

in which the repulsive race known as beastmen had been created, that they were

indeed the bastard offspring of the debauched matings between the human and the

inhuman, between man and beast, and beast and woman.

“Rolf! Konrad! So delighted that you accepted my invitation.”

It was Zuntermein, but Konrad hardly recognised him. He was wearing a flimsy

saffron robe, and his right breast was bare. It was a female breast. There could be no

doubt that the rest of him was male, however, even though his lips had been rouged,

and the broken veins on his cheeks were similarly hidden. Long earrings dangled

from each lobe, their pattern the same as Taungar’s pendant. Fat and gaudy, his grey

hair covered by a yellow wig, he was a parody of the slender servant girl. She

remained in the room, closing the door behind her.

Zuntermein hugged Taungar and kissed both his cheeks. Konrad stepped back,

out of reach, and quickly surveyed the room.

“Now we are six,” said Zuntermein, and he waved his arm to encompass the other

occupants. “Six times six.” The rings on his fingers sparkled in the candlelight, and

wine slopped over the rim of his crystal glass.

“Is she here?” asked Konrad.

“Have patience, my dear boy. The night is yet young. Let us eat, let us drink, let

us make merry. And if you’re good, if you’re very good, then…” Zuntermein smiled

and turned away, his arm still around Taungar’s shoulder.

Everyone in the room was clad in the same type of garment, but the different

colours were hard to distinguish in the scarlet light. There seemed to be equal

numbers of men and women, although they were also difficult to distinguish.

The young servant who had given him the spiced wine on his previous visit

offered him an ornate goblet from a laden tray. Konrad could still not decide whether

the servant was male or female. The right breast was bare, and was male. But the

blue hair was long and curled, the face powdered and rouged. Konrad was about to

refuse the drink, then decided it would be best if he appeared to join in the festivities.

He accepted the goblet and tilted it to his lips, but kept his mouth closed and drank

none of the contents.

This was the same room he had been in before, but it was no longer recognizable.

The elegant furniture had gone, replaced by satin cushions which covered the floor,

while long velvet drapes hung across the walls. The pounding sound came from a

pair of drums which were being played bare-handed by a huge bald man. In the

corner with him sat a small woman who plucked at the strings of her harp. The

instrument seemed ill-suited to such raucous accompaniment, and yet the rhythm of

the strange duet was hypnotically powerful.

There were sounds, there were scents, there were sights. Without indulging in

what was on offer, Konrad’s senses were almost overwhelmed by what was

happening all around him. The air was thick with the fragrance of various exotic

42

substances. He recognized weirdroot, and there were many more other forbidden

aromas in the room. He began to feel intoxicated simply by breathing in the

atmosphere.

Everyone else seemed to be talking or laughing, dancing or kissing, while he

remained but an observer. He moved around the room to make his lack of

participation less apparent, pretending to drink. He did not even need to taste what

the goblet contained to know how strong it was, the heady bouquet told him that.

Meanwhile, the sounds became louder, the scents became stronger, the sights

became more indecent.

“Konrad!” said one of the inebriated revellers, slapping him on the back. “This is

the life, hey!”

He stared at the grinning face a few inches in front of his, a face that seemed

familiar. He tried to imagine it beneath an Imperial guard helmet—and he recognized

Captain Holwald, the officer in charge of raising the Imperial standards above the

palace every morning. Konrad wondered how many others from the Imperial guard

were here.

“Yes, sir,” he agreed, “it is.”

“Sir? Sir!” Holwald laughed, and wine dribbled down his beard. “We’re all

equals here, Konrad. Call me Manfred. But what’s your first name, Konrad?”

“That is my first name. And my second name. It’s my only name.”

“This is Sybille,” said Holwald, gesturing to the woman by his side. “Say hello to

Konrad. Konrad, Sybille.”

Tall and fair and definitely female, her bare breast was tattooed with the same

runic device that everyone except Konrad wore. She was nowhere near as intoxicated

as her companion. After looking Konrad up and down with undisguised admiration,

her eyes met his and she smiled.

“Get me another drink, Manfred,” she said, not looking at her escort.

Holwald staggered away, and Sybille moved closer to Konrad. “Werner knows

how to throw a good party,” she said.

Konrad nodded. A party—that was exactly what this was. The occasion was

rapidly developing into an evening of decadence, what passed for a bizarre orgy

amongst the rich and bored inhabitants of the capital, but it had nothing to do with

Chaos. They were simply indulging their own baser instincts, taking whatever

hedonistic pleasures were available tonight, because later they would have to put

their clothes on again and return to their normal respectable roles within Altdorf

society.

What else could he have expected? He raised the goblet to his lips and this time

he took a drink. The liquid was thick and creamy, as potent as he had guessed, and its

minty taste warmed his mouth and throat as he swallowed.

“Have you tried these?” asked Sybille, taking his hand and guiding him across the

room. “They’re delicious. I must ask Werner’s chef for the recipe.” She gestured to

the silver tray on the table, scooping a handful of the contents into her mouth.

“No thanks,” said Konrad, recognizing the dish.

Its main ingredient was a type of mushroom which certain troops on the frontier

eagerly consumed before going into combat, claiming the substance rendered them

43

immune to wounds. Perhaps it did, because few who ate such a meal were ever

wounded; they were usually killed. The mushrooms altered their perceptions, some

argued, heightening their awareness of danger. Konrad believed that the opposite was

true: their senses were so dulled that they did not care whether they were killed or

not. It must almost have been like being a beastman.

“You don’t seem very relaxed, Konrad,” said Sybille, who had not released her

grip on him.

She was extremely good looking, despite her green hair, and Konrad recognized

that under different circumstances he might have been attracted to her. Sybille must

have noticed the way he was watching her, because she suddenly leaned forward and

kissed him. Konrad felt the warmth of her naked breast against his own bare flesh,

and he did not resist—not until a few seconds later, when she tried to feed him some

of the mushrooms from her mouth to his…

He drew back, taking another sip of wine. He held the goblet between them, as if

it were a shield and Sybille an enemy to be held at bay.

“Give me some of your wine,” she said, and he offered her his goblet. “Not like

that.” She pushed it back towards him. “You drink first. I want to taste it from your

lips.”

He shook his head and finally freed his hand from hers, not wanting even to touch

her.

“You’re amongst friends here,” said Sybille. “We’re all friends.” She glanced

around. “Why don’t we join the festivities?”

Konrad noticed that he and Sybille were almost the only ones still standing. By

now, there was near silence in the room and everyone else was otherwise engaged. It

did not matter who with, or how many of them. The drummer and the harpist were no

longer playing their instruments, they were doing something quite different together;

the third servant was involved with someone else of equally indeterminate sex;

Taungar was proving that the pink-haired servant girl could do more than lead guests

through the mansion; even Captain Holwald had found himself other partners in the

brief time he had been away from Sybille. But there was no sign of Zuntermein, who

should have been easy to locate. His absence made Konrad feel uneasy.

Sybille’s hands began to rove across Konrad’s body, and he pushed her away,

gently at first, then more forcefully. She shrugged and turned around, and it did not

take her long to discover a welcome elsewhere.

Wizard or not, it was time to find Zuntermein and confront him. Konrad started

across the room, to where the door was hidden behind the velvet draperies.

That was when the curtain at the other side of the room fell away. A wall had

stood there on Konrad’s first visit, but now that had gone and the hidden chamber

beyond was revealed.

There was Zuntermein. He stood upon a raised platform in front of a giant effigy

of his perverted god, and with him was a girl, helpless and naked.

She was not Elyssa.

Elyssa had been tall and slim and long-legged, and this girl was not. Elyssa’s long

hair had been thick and straight and jet black, but hers was short and blonde, fine and

wavy. Elyssa’s face had been oval, whereas hers was round. Elyssa’s nose was firm

44

and straight, not small and upturned. Elyssa’s eyes had been the blackest of black, the

pupil and iris almost as one, not soft brown.

She was not Elyssa.

She was Krysten!

A moment later, before Konrad could react to the tableau which had suddenly opened

up before him, he was seized from behind by several strong arms which held him

rigid and immobile.

The huge idol was half male, half female; the left side of its humanoid body

displayed masculine attributes, while the right side showed its feminine physique.

Two pairs of horns rose out of its skull, protruding from its long golden hair. Clad in

pale velvet, over which was worn a shirt of chain mail, the figure carried a jade

sceptre in its right hand and a small dagger in its left.

“Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh!”

Konrad gazed up at the monstrous effigy, almost mesmerized by its different

aspects—it was repulsively ugly, yet paradoxically beautiful.

“Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh!”

All of those who had been indulging their orgiastic lusts only seconds previously

had now risen to their knees, and they chanted out the two syllables of their revered

lord’s name, making it into a profane prayer. It was they who composed the

sacrilegious congregation; this was their blasphemous church; Zuntermein was their

heathen priest.

The wizard was still wearing the same garment, but he no longer looked

ridiculous. He had been transformed into a tribal shaman, dressed in his sacred robes.

His ornaments had become talismanic emblems, his facial decorations were now

warpaint, his wig was the same colour as his master’s golden mane and a symbol of

his ritual authority.

“Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh!”

Slaanesh…

One of the most powerful of the Chaos pantheon, Slaanesh was the lord of

pleasure, the god of hedonism and carnal lust.

“Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh!”

Konrad knew the name, and now he remembered the symbol of the bisexual deity

was composed from a union of the ancient sign for a male and that for a female: a

circle with an arrow pointing to the upper right, a circle with a cross rising above it.

That was the motif which all the worshippers wore as jewellery or carried

permanently as tattoos.

“Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh!”

The altar to the god of decadence and depravity towered over Zuntermein and

loomed menacingly above his defenceless hostage.

Krysten stood with her head bowed, facing the chanting crowd. There was a

chain around her neck, and Zuntermein held the other end as if she were some kind

of wild animal that he had tamed.

“Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh!”

Zuntermein raised his other hand, and the chanting ceased.

45

“I have kept my promise,” he said, staring down at Konrad. “I knew how

disappointed you would be if I hadn’t.”

Konrad had believed that Krysten was dead, just as he had thought Elyssa had

died five years before her, five years to the very day; he had thought both had been

slain on Sigmarzeit, the first day of summer. But it had been Elyssa he had hoped he

might see tonight. Now he knew that they both lived—for a while…

“I observed that you didn’t seem to have been enjoying our hospitality.”

Zuntermein spoke as though he and Konrad were totally alone and simply making

conversation. “Perhaps there was nothing we had to offer which was to your liking. I

can understand that. We all have different tastes, some more refined than others. But

we do like to provide our guests with whatever pleasure they most desire. You have

no excuse now, Konrad. We have the very thing to tempt you.”

At the sound of Konrad’s name, Krysten moved for the first time. She raised her

head slightly and looked in front of her. When she saw Konrad, her eyes widened,

and she took a step forward. That was as far as she could go, because the chain kept

her back. She held out her arms towards him.

“Konrad,” she whispered. “Konrad,” she begged. “Konrad…”

“Let her go!” yelled Konrad, and for the first time he began to struggle against

the arms which gripped his limbs and neck. He could hardly move, it was almost as if

his whole body were in chains. His captors were experts in restraint. Taungar was

one of them, Holwald another.

“Don’t be so foolish,” replied Zuntermein. “I have gone to a lot of trouble on

your behalf, Konrad. You should be very appreciative, although I suppose gratitude

is too much to expect. But aren’t you pleased to see your ladyfriend again?”

“Are you all right?” said Konrad, speaking to Krysten instead of answering the

sorcerer priest. He knew that was also a foolish thing to say but he could think of

nothing else.

Krysten shook her head, in confusion rather than in reply.

“I thought,” she said, “I thought…” Silent tears dripped down her cheeks as she

gazed at Konrad, and she wiped her face with her fingertips.

“Let her go!” he shouted again. That was all that he wanted, he realized, and so it

was not a foolish demand.

“I can imagine how overjoyed you are to find your beautiful friend is safe,

Konrad. You have not seen her for a long while, I believe? That means you have so

much lost time to make up. It will be wonderful to kiss her again, to hold her. Think

how much pleasure you will both have. To thank us for bringing you together, I think

you ought to show us exactly how much you have missed her.”

Konrad stared up at him, knowing exactly what the wizard meant. He was

expecting them to behave in the uninhibited manner that everyone else had been

doing a few minutes ago. Konrad had vowed to do anything to save Elyssa, and the

same was true for Krysten. He would obey every command the sorcerer gave him—

yet he was well aware that no matter how he and Krysten might abase themselves,

Zuntermein did not intend allowing them to live to see another dawn.

Konrad lowered his gaze and nodded his head. “Whatever you say,” he said

quietly.

46

“I knew you would see things my way,” said Zuntermein. “Bring him up here.”

As Konrad was manhandled towards the steps which led up to the dais he

remembered that while he had been a prisoner of Kastring’s raiding band, they had

captured a small group of marauders whose misfortune it was to honour another

deity. Konrad’s hosts were adherents of Khorne; the others obeyed Slaanesh. The

followers of the god of blood and those who bowed down to the god of pleasure were

the greatest of enemies, so implicitly opposed were they in the extremes of their

beliefs.

Kastring had prepared a very special death for the Slaaneshi cultists, ensuring that

they died far more slowly and much more painfully than any other of the sacrifices

his acolytes so regularly made to the huntsman of souls. The worshippers of the two

powers hated and despised each other—and the gods themselves were forever in

conflict, two rival deities battling for superiority within the realms of Chaos.

Zuntermein had difficulty in pulling Krysten away to the far side of the altar. She

had slipped her hands between the chain and her neck so that the metal links did not

bite into her throat. It took three pairs of arms to keep Konrad at the other edge of the

shrine.

“Hold her,” Zuntermein ordered, and one of those restraining Konrad released his

grip and went to take the end of Krysten’s chain.

“Are you sincere?” said the magician, walking slowly towards Konrad. “Are you

really going to demonstrate your affection for her… for us?”

The one idea in Konrad’s head had been of how to kill Zuntermein, and now he

tried desperately to think of something else—to imagine that he and Krysten were

obeying the wizard’s perverted demands.

Zuntermein put his hand on Konrad’s bare chest, and the touch was like ice. He

felt the warmth of his body draining away but that was not important. What mattered

was what the sorcerer was stealing from his mind.

“You should not have tried to deceive me,” sighed Zuntermein, stepping back.

“As for wishing me harm…” He shook his head sadly. “What a shame. When we

first met, I hoped that we could be such good friends. Alas, it was not to be. So if you

will not do what is required—”

“No!” yelled Konrad.

“Yes,” smiled Zuntermein.

Konrad began to struggle again. There were only two of them holding him now,

but he felt much weaker, as though the wizard’s freezing touch had also depleted his

strength.

He watched helplessly as Zuntermein strolled back across the dais towards

Krysten. Krysten tried to evade him, but the man holding the metal leash would not

allow her to back away. She struck out at the wizard, but he ignored the blows and

reached forward to stroke the side of her face. At his touch, her frantic movements

slowed. Her arms were still in motion, but at a fraction of the previous rate.

Zuntermein looked at Konrad. “There is pleasure in pleasure,” he said. “And

there is pleasure—”

He reached up to the huge effigy’s left hand and took the blade from its grip. The

knife no longer looked so small in the wizard’s hand, because it had been made for a

47

human. It was an Imperial guard dagger, and Konrad knew it must have been one of

those he had brought here.

“In pain!”

“No!” Konrad’s cry was a tortured scream.

“Slaanesh. Slaanesh.” The audience took up the name of their foul deity again,

softly at first, then building up to an even greater crescendo than before. “Slaanesh!

Slaanesh! Slaanesh!! Slaanesh!! Slaanesh!! Slaanesh!!!”

Zuntermein stepped towards Krysten, whose arms were still slowly trying to fend

him off. He nodded to the other man, who removed the chain from her neck and

stepped aside. The wizard priest leaned towards the girl, and he whispered in her ear.

Then he kissed both her cheeks—and gave her the knife…

“Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh!”

For a moment Konrad did not realize what was happening. He had expected

Zuntermein to use the blade upon Krysten’s naked body, to begin slowly torturing

her. Instead, Krysten now had the dagger. Her eyes gazed at Konrad, her empty eyes,

her possessed eyes, and slowly she walked towards him, raising the knife as she did

so.

She was under Zuntermein’s command, and the wizard’s command must have

been to slay Konrad!

“Krysten!” he yelled. “Krysten!”

But he knew that his shouts would not be enough to break the hypnotic spell

which had captured the girl. He renewed his attempts to break free, but he was as

powerless as Krysten. They were both Zuntermein’s hostages. Konrad’s body was no

longer his own, while Krysten’s mind belonged to the witch priest.

“Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh!”

Krysten moved closer to Konrad, every slow step bringing his death nearer. There

could be no death more cruel than to be executed by a lover.

This was why he had been drawn here, he realized: so that he could be slain,

sacrificed to the lord of pleasure.

“Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh!”

The girl halted a yard away from him, the point of her blade half that distance

from his throat. Her staring eyes were focused beyond him, her face was without

expression.

“Krysten!” he shouted again.

She blinked, and the hand which was holding the knife trembled.

She whispered something, and Konrad thought that it was his name, but the word

was lost in the depraved ritual chanting.

“Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Slaanesh!”

“Krysten!”

Then suddenly she regained full control of herself. Her limbs lost their rigidity,

and for a moment she smiled. She repeated what she had said, but far louder,

screaming out the word—and simultaneously thrusting the knife towards Konrad’s

chest.

“KHORNE!”

48

CHAPTER SIX

“KHORNE!”

The point of the blade slashed across Konrad’s chest, leaving a line of blood.

As the loathed name of their revered god’s hated rival echoed through the room,

it shocked the fevered chorus of acolytes into sudden silence and Konrad felt his

human bonds briefly slacken—and he burst free.

He drove his left elbow into Taungar’s face, feeling the sergeant’s nose crumple

under the blow. Taungar cried out in agony and stepped back over the edge of the

dais and dropped into the crowd beneath him.

Holwald maintained his grip upon his prisoner’s right arm slightly longer, until

Konrad swung around and smashed his fist into his throat, crushing it with a single

powerful blow. With such a terrible injury, Holwald could not even whisper his pain.

Konrad thrust the heel of his hand up against the captain’s chin, jerking it swiftly

back. There was a sharp sickening snap as Holwald’s neck broke, and he was dead

before he hit the ground.

The man who had held Krysten’s chain now rushed towards her, his face

contorted with hatred, his fingers held out like claws. The girl had not moved since

slicing at Konrad, but now she turned. She dodged aside as the man lunged at her,

then drove the dagger into his belly. He grunted in surprise and pain, and toppled to

the ground, taking the blade with him.

Krysten had dispatched the cultist exactly as Konrad had taught her to deal with

an assailant. He glanced at the girl, but did not recognize her expression. Her features

had become malevolent, devoid of all innocence. Free from Zuntermein’s spell, she

was in thrall to a far more dominant power.

Although blood was pouring from his chest, Konrad felt no pain. He had suffered

many wounds which were far worse. If she had meant to kill him, Krysten could have

done so with a swift and accurate strike deep into his heart. That was something else

he had taught her.

But it was not Konrad’s death that she wanted—it was his blood…

“Khorne!” she shouted once again, raising her arms as she prayed to the god of

blood.

Konrad saw a movement above him, and he looked up. The effigy of Slaanesh

seemed to shimmer, its outlines melting, its features dissolving into a different image,

and Konrad could see another vast idol in its place upon the dais. It wore brass

armour, sat upon a throne mounted over the bones of its victims, carried a mighty

waraxe and a shield which bore an X-shaped emblem.

He remembered the last time he had stood before such a shrine, when he had been

with the beast-girl called Silk, and how she had carved that same runic cross into the

chest of one of Kastring’s captives…

49

He touched his own chest, feeling the wet warmth which flowed from the wound,

and it was as if this were Konrad’s own offering to the lord of death and of pain.

Time seemed frozen, stretching to eternity. Krysten gazed at Konrad, and their

eyes finally met. The girl’s pupils seemed to glow red. And through them Khorne

himself appeared to be offering Konrad the opportunity of swearing blood

allegiance—that the only way of escaping the Slaaneshi cultists was for Konrad to

join their most hated enemy.

His pulse raced, his heart pounded, and more blood oozed from his wound.

Krysten had become one of Khorne’s acolytes. All of Konrad’s desires were

reawakened as he remembered the passions they had shared.

He wanted to be with her again, no matter what the price; and he wanted to flee

the Slaaneshi temple, whatever the price. _ Yet a part of him held back, aware of how

high that price would be. It would cost him far more than his own life, he realized.

Krysten smiled, beckoning to him.

Then she screamed.

But this was no scream of devotion as she called upon the foul deity that she

worshipped. It was a scream of ultimate pain. Her whole body shook in an agonized

spasm, and she dropped to the ground, still twitching.

It was Zuntermein’s doing. Only a second or two had passed, and now the

magician had turned his thaumaturgical talents upon the girl.

Khorne was banished, the altar to Slaanesh was back in view again, and in a

moment Zuntermein would direct a spell against Konrad. Against such magical

attacks he had no defence.

Already Konrad had acted. He had no weapon, but did not wish to touch the

wizard with his bare hands for fear of what spell could flow from flesh to flesh. He

sprang up to the effigy of Slaanesh, up towards the jade sceptre which the figure

clutched in its left hand. The wand was an elaborately carved green staff, the deity’s

emblem wrought into its upper end. Konrad pulled it free and he leapt down at

Zuntermein, who had raised his arms to cast another spell.

Before the wizard could utter a single syllable of his fiendish chant, Konrad

rammed the lower end of the sceptre into his mouth, silencing him, then drove it

down into his throat, choking him.

Konrad forced the jade sceptre even deeper—and discovered that it was as easy

to slay a sorcerer as it was to kill anyone else. They were mortal, they could die.

And Zuntermein died.

The sudden unwelcome sound of the enemy deity’s name had both silenced and

stilled the congregation of the damned, but by now they had all regained their voices

and their volition. The heathens were swarming up to the dais, screaming out their

demented blood lust. Konrad rolled Zuntermein’s corpse towards the steps, knocking

the first few of the horde back.

He drew the knife from the belly of Krysten’s victim and dashed forward, striking

out at the first two men who made it to the top of the steps. One fell back, his throat

sliced open, fountains of red spraying from his severed blood vessels. The second

dragged the knife from Konrad’s grip, the blade embedded in his heart as he dropped.

50

Even though none of his opponents was armed, Konrad realized that there were

too many of them to fight. Such odds had seldom stopped him before, but there was

more on his mind than combat: he had to get Krysten away from here.

He glanced up at the chandelier above his head, at all the candles, at all the red

flames, and he noticed the velvet curtains which covered the walls of the secret

temple.

Turning back to the altar, once more Konrad leapt at the giant effigy. But this

time he kept a grip on the figure of Slaanesh, hauling himself up, using the image’s

limbs as his stepping stones, climbing to the deity’s horned head, then reaching out

towards the elaborate lamp. It was a yard beyond his reach, and he launched himself

through the air, grabbing hold of the lower edge—but the supporting chain was torn

out of the ceiling by his weight and the whole thing fell. So did Konrad. He dropped

onto the acolytes below, dragging the heavy chandelier down on those around him.

More blood was spilled where the crystal shards struck.

Most of the candles had been extinguished by the fall, but a few were still alight.

Konrad kicked and punched himself free, and pulled two of the guttering candles

from the sconces. Holding them upright, he hurried to one side of the room, touching

the flames to the drapes. The fabric immediately caught fire, erupting vividly in a

matter of moments.

Ripping off a piece of velvet from another curtain, Konrad wadded it into a ball

and ignited it from the blaze. The fabric unravelled as it flew across the room, like a

barrel of burning pitch hurled from a ballista, and the draperies on the far side also

began to blaze.

The screams of venomous hatred quickly turned to cries of desperate fear, and

instead of trying to attack Konrad the cultists were now attempting to escape the

incendiary assault. But some did not move aside swiftly enough, and Konrad used his

bare hands as his weapons. Men or women, it made no difference, all became

Konrad’s victims as he forced his way back to the dais and to Krysten’s side.

She lay on her back, her eyes open and unblinking. Zuntermein’s unseen assault

had left no sign of injury, and she was still alive.

“Konrad,” she breathed, as he knelt next to her. “I thought you were dead…”

“Not me,” he told her, sliding one arm under her knees and the other beneath her

back. “And not you,” he promised.

Krysten gasped in pain as Konrad picked her up. He carried her past the shrine,

down the steps, through the swirling smoke and towards the flames. By now, it was

not only the velvet curtains which were blazing; everything was becoming engulfed

by the inferno. There was absolute mayhem within the temple. A crazed cultist

rushed past, his hair turned to fire. Others were frenziedly tearing at their robes which

were ablaze, their flesh blistering in the raging heat.

The door to the passage beyond was visible now that the curtains masking it had

burned away, and a number of acolytes were gathered near the exit, but it seemed

they could not make their way through to safety because of the intensity of the heat.

They pushed forward, but then withdrew hastily towards the centre of the room,

which was the only part not yet ablaze.

The conflagration had engulfed all the walls, and tongues of fire were licking

hungrily across the floor and over the ceiling.

51

The temple was full of smoke and screams, the roar of vivid flames and the

stench of burning flesh.

A few more seconds, and the conflagration would have destroyed everything.

Konrad carried Krysten through the fire, and the flames seemed to part for a

moment wherever they passed. It was as if there were a route through the

incandescence, a pathway which only he could sense and which was not part of the

room, not part of Altdorf, perhaps not even part of the world…

He walked between the blackened bodies of his tortured enemies, towards the

refuge offered by the only area of the room still untouched by fire. When he reached

the door, he kicked it open and stepped through into the sanctuary of the corridor

beyond.

The door slammed shut behind him. A moment before it did so, Konrad caught

sight of the funeral pyre within and witnessed the hideous fate of those who were still

alive and trapped by the immolation, the ravenous flames consuming their living

flesh.

He realized that the door must have been drawn shut by the severity of the heat,

as it sucked in even more air to feed the inferno, but he knew that it was more than

merely the blaze which had imprisoned the doomed worshippers. Some sinister force

had held them contained within the conflagration, unable to escape, yet it had

permitted himself and Krysten to leave. Not even the hair on his arms had been

singed, despite the ferocity of the flames.

Within the passageway, suddenly everything was still and silent; there was not

even a smell of burning. It was as if the blaze were a thousand miles away.

Supporting Krysten with one arm, Konrad reached out to touch the wall—and swiftly

drew his hand away. The wooden panel was hot, very hot. It could not contain the

raging fire beyond for much longer.

He made his way to the end of the hall, laying the girl upon the pile of clothes on

the floor. She winced in pain. Her eyes had been closed, but now she opened them

again and she smiled when she saw Konrad.

“I’m glad you aren’t dead,” she said softly.

“And I’m glad you aren’t,” he told her, and he kissed her forehead.

She raised her face and lifted her hands, pulling him down so that he kissed her

lips—and he tasted warm blood. His arms were covered in blood where he had held

her.

For a moment he thought it was his own blood, then he realized that it was hers.

Earlier, Krysten’s eyes had seemed to be red, but now her entire body was suddenly

that colour. It was as if she had been flayed alive.

“We have to go,” he said, releasing her and standing up.

He smiled so that she would not notice how concerned he was. He looked around

for something to cover her with, and he found a green velvet cloak, then another.

They were the kind worn by courtiers at the palace, but their wearers no longer had

need of them. Konrad wrapped Krysten in the cloaks.

She opened her lips for another kiss, and he responded. This time there was even

more blood.

“Why did you leave me?” Krysten asked, and then she died.

52

Konrad gazed in disbelief at her corpse. He pulled a loose strand of blonde hair

away from Krysten’s cheek, wiped the blood from her face, touched his fingertips to

her lips one final time, then pulled one of the velvet cloaks higher, over her head,

folding it around her as if he were tucking her into bed.

He stood up, found his own clothes and swiftly dressed. The second of his knives

was still in his boot.

Krysten was gone. All that remained was her body, and Konrad piled more of the

discarded clothes around and on top of her lifeless corpse, reached for a candle from

the wall and set fire to the stack of garments. He walked back along the corridor,

igniting the tapestries and everything else that was flammable, before opening the

outside door and stepping into the night.

The servant boy was waiting for him. He was armed with a spear, which he thrust

at Konrad’s stomach. Konrad stepped aside, grabbing the shaft as it slid past his hip.

He pulled, and the servant was dragged towards him—and onto Konrad’s knife.

The boy gasped in agony as the blade slid into his chest, the gasp turning into a

long scream of ultimate despair as Konrad killed him.

He killed him slowly; he killed him coldly; he killed him without mercy. He

stabbed him over and over again, until his white uniform had become totally red.

Only then did Konrad kick the servant into the moat, where the waters turned to

blood as his life finally ebbed away.

Konrad made his way across the gardens of Zuntermein’s mansion. When he

reached the gate he looked back. The blaze was far more spectacular than the one at

the army guardhouse had been.

* * *

It was after being in a tavern with Taungar that Konrad had first met Zuntermein. The

young serving girl had reminded him of Krysten, and that was why it was she who

had been foremost in Konrad’s thoughts when Zuntermein had probed into his mind.

Then, after so many months apart, and however briefly together, Konrad had

been reunited with the girl.

There is no such thing as chance, Wolf had frequently said. Either that was true

or the converse: there was too much chance. Too many things had happened for them

all to be attributed to random circumstance. So many intertwining events could only

have been part of a greater design, but Konrad was too close to see his own place

within the pattern.

After returning from the dwarf temple which Wolf and Anvila and he had

discovered, Konrad found that the frontier mine was destroyed and everyone within

had been killed or taken hostage. There had seemed to be but one survivor, the one-

handed man called Heinler—but in reality this was the skaven, Gaxar. The grey seer

had taken on human form, masquerading as a miner, and it was he who had destroyed

the watch towers so that the invaders could approach the fortified workings unseen.

Unable to find her body amongst the ruins, Konrad had assumed that Krysten was

a prisoner of the pagan hordes. While tracking the marauding armies, he had revealed

to Gaxar that his motive for pursuit was to locate and rescue the abducted girl-Having

53

discovered this, Gaxar had knocked him unconscious. When he awoke, Konrad was

the captive of a marauding band of Khorne worshippers. Another group of Khorne

acolytes must have captured Krysten at the mine—but it was more than her body

which they had taken. She had become corrupted, joining them to become a devotee

of the Blood God. And then, somehow, she had fallen into Zuntermein’s hands.

Konrad had escaped Kastring’s warband by dressing in the armour of the bronze

warrior, the knight who Wolf said had been his twin brother. This was the same

figure Konrad and Elyssa had seen ride through their village the day before the

swarms of rampaging beastmen had totally annihilated everyone and everything

within the valley.

It was Litzenreich who had saved Konrad from his prison of bronze; it was

Litzenreich who was the cause of Gaxar losing his right paw; it was Litzenreich who

had convinced Konrad that Gaxar must have been heading for Altdorf after the

skaven sorcerer’s subterranean lair had been assailed by the Middenheim troops.

And Gaxar had indeed been in the Imperial capital—as was Elyssa… and

Skullface… and Krysten.

There was no such thing as chance…

Konrad felt as if he were enmeshed within a giant web, becoming more and more

trapped all the time. The strands of the web seemed to link all the people that he had

ever known, his enemies as well as his friends.

Elyssa and Kastring; Kastring and Gaxar; Gaxar and Krysten; Krysten and

Zuntermein…

Wolf and the bronze knight; the bronze knight and Litzenreich…

Elyssa and Skullface; Skullface and Gaxar…

Silver Eye and the golden crest; the golden crest and Elyssa…

Chance…

Deep beneath Altdorf so many of them had been together: Litzenreich, Gaxar,

Silver Eye, Elyssa, Skullface.

And himself.

There was no one line linking all of these; each was connected by several

interlocking links. And everything was circular. Whichever direction Konrad

explored, he was brought inevitably back to where he had begun.

Chaos…

He was a pawn of Chaos, cast helplessly whichever way the winds of fate

happened to blow him, a piece of driftwood at the mercy of the currents and oceans,

washed up on some foreign shore and then carried away again by the next tide. He

had believed it was his own decision to come to Altdorf, but that was not so. All he

had done was play the role which destiny had assigned to him.

Moreover, he had become a creature of darkness, corrupted by the warpstone

within the bronze shackles which had held him for so long, then further infected by

more of the evil unearthly substance which Litzenreich had used to extract him from

the armour.

Zuntermein had recognized the taint of Chaos which had taken hold of Konrad. It

was something that Konrad knew he would never escape. Skaven could even smell

the odour of the warpstone which permeated his body.

54

When Krysten called out the name of the huntsman of souls, had she really

summoned up a vision of the Blood God? For a few moments Konrad believed he

had seen the image of Khorne upon the altar, and he had felt his allegiance being

drawn towards the powers of damnation. Had he been granted some profane strength

by the cruel deity which had enabled him to escape?

Unlike the time when he had battled the goblins in the ancient dwarf temple,

below the mountains of Kislev, Konrad had been aware of no inhuman power

invigorating him. He had felt no different when he had slain Zuntermein and fought

against the Slaaneshi cultists. It had been his own hatred which had given him all the

energy that he needed to defeat his benighted foes.

He and Krysten had escaped from the doomed church, however, whilst everyone

else within had perished. He could not deny that some supernatural force had seemed

to help him survive, guiding him unharmed through the deadly flames.

Was it the Blood God who had saved him, then claimed the price of its assistance

by taking Krysten as another sacrifice?

Konrad had no way of knowing, and neither did he want to consider any of it, not

now, not ever.

He had to get out of Altdorf. The web was drawing tighter and tighter around

him, sucking him towards its centre and what must surely be his inevitable nemesis.

That was why he must leave the capital.

He was aware that he would be able to escape the city without any difficulty,

although he realized that it would have been wisest to have taken some of

Zuntermein’s valuables before he left—but so far as Konrad was concerned, there

had been only one precious thing inside the mansion.

For months he had falsely believed that Krysten was dead; now it was true.

Even as he made his way out of the city, slipping past the watch like a shadow in

the night, Konrad knew that he would return.

55

CHAPTER SEVEN

He could have gone anywhere that he chose, anywhere in the Empire, anywhere

beyond—but there was nowhere that he wished to go, nothing that he wished to do.

His only profession was that of a soldier, and he could have sought employment

as a mercenary in any land within the known world. There were always wars and

battles; there was always fighting to be done, always killing and looting and

destroying. He could have returned to Kislev, continued his role in the eternal battle

against the incursion of the armies from the northern wastes. At least on the frontier

one knew who one’s enemies were—unlike in Altdorf. Within the capital, members

of the court of Karl-Franz could be Slaaneshi cultists, while the Emperor’s own guard

might be manned by Chaos worshippers.

Konrad wanted to be as far away as possible from Altdorf and all its treachery

and intrigue, but part of him still lay within the Imperial capital.

That was the memory of Elyssa, the brief moment when their eyes had met before

he was swept into the culvert and out of the subterranean cavern. The girl had been

so much a part of his life for so long that it was impossible to obliterate her from his

mind. Even throughout the years when he believed she was dead, she had never been

far from his thoughts. Now that he knew she was alive, he spent more and more time

thinking of her.

Konrad was exactly the way he had been before he and Elyssa had ever met. All

he had owned then were his clothes and his knife. That was all he had now, and all

that he needed.

Krysten had died, died in his arms, and Konrad tried to make himself accept that

Elyssa was also lost to him. Physically she may still have lived, but her soul must

have been ensnared long ago. If Krysten had been corrupted in a few brief months,

then Elyssa had surely become one of the damned during the years since she had

been captured. She could not have been Skullface’s prisoner for so long without

being tainted by his benighted influence. By now she must have been his consort and

his ally, as much a creature of Chaos as he was.

For Krysten, the ordeal was over; but not for Elyssa.

And there was nothing that Konrad could do except try to forget her—yet that

would be the hardest thing of all.

Konrad had gone to Altdorf because of Silver Eye, pursuing the skaven and the

mysterious shield which he carried; but now that his master was dead, perhaps the

warrior rat had departed from the tunnels below the Imperial city. The conspiracy to

replace the Emperor with a doppelganger must have ended with the death of Gaxar.

After escaping from the Imperial capital, Konrad travelled south through the

Reikwald Forest. It reminded him of the woodlands where he had spent his early life,

56

and for the first few days he seemed to have returned to that kind of existence,

surviving on the animals that he could trap.

There was plenty of wildlife in these woodlands, which was a sure sign that there

were few mutated predators in the vicinity. Most of the birds were not carrion eaters,

the majority of the animals not scavengers: they did not survive by eating what

remained after the beastmen had mutilated and devoured their prey.

The Forest of Shadows had seemed far older, full of ancient trees, many of which

were rotten and covered with fungus. Konrad had taken the all-embracing miasma of

decomposition for granted at the time, because he knew nothing else. Now he was

aware that it was not simply age which had caused the trees to become twisted and

decayed—it was the touch of Chaos. In Ost-land, the forest was still inhabited by

numerous beastmen, the descendants of those who had taken part in the last great

Chaos invasion two centuries ago; and the woodlands were themselves still corrupted

by the effects of the incursion, as well as by the infection of the ugly creatures who

still lurked within the darkest depths.

They existed throughout the known world, but there were fewer such deformities

in this part of the Empire, or so close to the capital. When he had been young,

Konrad’s gift of foresight had saved him from the beastmen on many an occasion.

But even without his extra vision, he felt safer in this forest than he had ever done in

his native valley. The trees here were more healthy and did not seem threatening. In

the Forest of Shadows the rows of trunks often appeared to form impenetrable walls

to keep out intruders, or seemed arrayed in maze-like patterns to prevent escape.

Winter was fast approaching, and Konrad had no intention of staying in the forest

for an hour longer than necessary. Without a horse he would not be able to travel far,

which meant he would have to remain in the first village that he found; but he had no

money to pay for a room at the inn.

The village was larger than the one where he had grown up, and was situated at a

crossroads. The signpost showed that one highway led to the city-state of Carroburg

in one direction, to Grunburg in the other; the second road led to Bogenhafen, whilst

the other direction was the route Konrad had followed from Altdorf to bring him

here. The largest building was the tavern, which was also a coaching inn. The sign

which hung outside bore the name The Grey Stoat, plus an illustration of such an

animal.

He needed something to trade, and he wished that he had a bow and quiver of

arrows to make his task easier; but he was able to snare a young deer. He bled and

gutted the animal, slung it over his shoulders, and headed for the village.

As he did so, Konrad remembered when he had entered Ferlangen. He had been

carrying a rabbit which he hoped to sell, but had ended up being sentenced to death

for poaching. It was Baron Otto Krieshmier who had condemned him to death, the

man who Elyssa was to have married.

Krieshmier and Elyssa—another strand of the web in which Konrad was

ensnared.

He had been saved by Wolf, who had fought and killed Krieshmier because the

baron had once cheated him out of some money.

Wolf and Krieshmier—yet another strand…

57

This time Konrad could fight his own battles. He was no longer the frightened

youth that he had been five and a half years ago.

No one would dare accuse him of poaching, not without a handful of armed men

to back up the charge. But he would be a lot more careful this time, which was why

he waited until dark before he entered the Grey Stoat, and why he used the back door,

and why he left his prize hidden outside behind a row of barrels.

There was a boy by the kitchen fire, turning a pig on a spit; and there was a man

chewing a piece of meat, his feet up on a table, his chair tilted back on two legs.

Neither of them noticed as Konrad silently shut the door and walked slowly up

behind them. Suddenly the man turned. He saw Konrad and lost his balance, falling

to the floor. He lay on his back, his hand clutching for the hilt of his sword. The hilt

was embossed with the Imperial crown; it was an Imperial guard sword.

“Don’t come any closer,” he warned. “I’m in the Imperial guard.”

Despite the sword, Konrad very much doubted that. The man’s hair was too long

and he wore a beard, but his accent was far too common for that of an officer. In any

case, despite being of the necessary height, he was too overweight to be a member of

the Emperor’s elite fighting force.

“Are you the landlord?”

“Why?”

“I’m asking the questions. Are you the landlord?”

“No,” replied the man, as he stood up and backed away. He held the hilt of his

sword, but having taken the measure of Konrad he had evidently decided it would be

unwise to draw the blade.

“Fetch him,” said Konrad.

“Go get Netzler,” the man told the boy.

“I told you to get him,” said Konrad, picking up the chair and sitting down.

The man stared at him for a few seconds before he opened the inner door and left

the kitchen. The boy watched him leave, then he looked at Konrad. >

“Dieter is in the Imperial guard,” said the boy, and he laughed as if he had never

heard anything so stupid. “He can’t even guard the kitchen,” he added, and he

laughed again.

Konrad also laughed. The boy was about eight or nine years old, his face dirty,

his clothes ragged, and he was doing exactly the kind of work which Konrad had

done a decade and a half ago. In Brandenheimer’s tavern, Konrad had to do all the

most menial, most boring, most dirty of jobs. That had been the whole of his early

life; but unlike this boy, Konrad had never had any occasion to laugh. He had always

kept silent, pretending that he could not even speak. Until he met Elyssa, there had

been no one that he wished to talk to.

“You’d better start turning the spit before that hog burns,” said Konrad, and the

boy did so.

A moment later, the door swung open again and the landlord entered the kitchen.

Slimly built, without the expansive beer belly that usually denoted his trade, he

looked more like a prosperous merchant. Dieter followed him through the door, and

he stood to attention, as though on sentry duty.

“What’s going on?” the landlord demanded.

58

“I have a business proposition which might be to our mutual benefit, Herr

Netzler,” said Konrad.

“That always interests me, Herr…?”

“Taungar,” said Konrad. The sergeant no longer had any use for his name, while

Konrad had no reason to reveal his own.

“Bring Herr Taungar a drink, Dieter. What would you like?”

“A beer,” said Konrad.

“A beer,” echoed Netzler, as he sat down opposite Konrad.

“Hans,” Dieter said to the kitchen boy, “a beer.”

“You fetch it,” Netzler told Dieter. “Then get to work.” When the door behind

him closed, he said to Konrad: “He’s in the Imperial guard.” He smiled, and Hans

laughed.

“And he comes here to work while he’s off duty?” said Konrad.

“He’s always off duty, it seems. But enough of this, what can I do for you?”

“It’s more what I can do for you.”

“I thought that’s what you were going to say.”

“I have some fresh local produce you might like to buy.”

“What?”

Konrad glanced at the spit. “Venison,” he said.

“Not the Emperor’s venison, I hope.”

“Only if he comes here to eat it.”

“Karl-Franz has dined here, and sampled what else we have to offer.”

Dieter came back, carrying a tankard of ale. He slammed it on the table, slid it

towards Konrad, then returned the way he had come.

The stein was only half full.

“Outside, to the left, behind the barrels,” said Konrad, sipping the ale, then

swallowing it down in two thirsty gulps.

Netzler went out through the back door, came in again, nodded and asked, “How

much?”

They haggled over the price.

“…and that’s my final offer,” said the landlord.

“A deal.”

“And I won’t charge you for the tankard of ale.”

“In that case,” said Konrad, nodding to the empty stein, “I’ll have the other half.”

A few more beers, a meal of bread and pork and turnips, the price of a bed for the

night, and half of Konrad’s money was already accounted for. Little wonder that

Netzler was clad as a wealthy merchant, because that was what he was.

The Grey Stoat was bigger than Konrad had first realized. It was more than a

tavern which served the villagers, more than a coaching inn for travellers to spend a

night before renewing their journey across the Empire. Upstairs were other private

rooms set aside for entertaining the noblemen from Altdorf who rode out from the

capital for a night of pleasure. For these, the Grey Stoat provided not only board and

lodgings.

59

Konrad drank slowly, alone in a corner, watching all that was happening around

him. He noticed the curtains on the far side which hid the flight of stairs up to the

next floor. The clientele on the gallery preferred to drink imported wines and exotic

liqueurs rather than local ale; the maids were the youngest and prettiest in the

tavern—and they provided more than mere alcoholic refreshment.

Most of all, Konrad kept watching Dieter. It seemed he was employed to keep

order throughout the establishment, and he was good at beating up drunks and

throwing them out. Konrad looked through the window, and it had begun to snow

again. It would cost a deer every two days to stay in the inn, he realized. Or maybe

there was an alternative…

Dieter appeared to spend most of his time drinking with two friends. Konrad had

noticed that it was he who always collected the fresh tankards of ale, refilling them

from one of the huge barrels but never paying. Every now and then, Dieter would

walk around the taproom, his hand on his sword hilt as though he were on patrol.

Invariably while he was doing this, Netzler would show his face a minute later,

looking from one of the doors which led into the drinking hall, or leaning down over

the balcony.

“Dieter!” shouted Konrad, as the man began one of his tours of inspection. “Over

here.”

“What you want?” asked Dieter, approaching him.

Konrad waited until he was a yard away, then slid his tankard towards him. “Get

me another beer.”

Dieter stared at him. “What?”

“You heard: get me another beer.”

“I’m not a sodding serving boy!”

“I’ve seen you. You’ve been serving your friends. And without paying. So get me

a free beer—or I’ll tell Netzler.”

“Don’t you sodding threaten me! I’m in the Imperial guard.”

Konrad drew his dagger and put in on the table in front of him. The intricate

pattern on the handle marked it as an Imperial guard blade. He spat on Dieter’s boots

and said: “You’re a liar, you fat slug.”

“Say that again,” warned Dieter, drawing his sword, “and you’re dead!”

“Say what? That you’re a liar or a fat slug?”

“Both!”

“You’re both a liar and a fat slug.”

By now there was almost complete silence within the tavern. All eyes were

focused on Konrad and Dieter, both in the taproom and from the gallery. Netzler was

amongst those watching, and he was also the only person moving. He was pushing

his way through the hall, towards the antagonists.

“Yaaahhhh!” yelled Dieter, and he thrust his sword at Konrad’s chest.

Konrad was still sitting down, and he simply leaned to one side and the point of

the blade was driven into the plaster wall where he had sat. He slid away from the

table, stood up, punched Dieter in the stomach, then chopped at the back of his neck

as the man went down. Dieter collapsed in a heap on the ground. That was enough,

but to show everyone that he was serious Konrad kicked him in the ribs a few times,

60

and Dieter began spewing up some of the gallon of beer he had consumed in the

previous two hours.

Sheathing his knife and then picking up Dieter’s sword, Konrad saw that the

blade had once snapped at the hilt and then been badly welded back into place.

Exactly how bad a weld was revealed by the ease with which it was broken again.

Konrad stabbed the blade into the floorboards, then twisted the hilt. It came away in

his hand, and he let it fall.

“He’s in the Imperial guard,” he told Netzler, as the landlord reached him.

Everywhere else, people were returning to their drinks and conversations.

“What happened?”

“He’s a liar and a thief.”

“I know, but I need someone to do the job. His predecessor got himself stabbed a

month ago, bled to death out in the courtyard.”

“You need someone better than him.”

“You, you mean?”

“Yes.”

Netzler glanced around to where Dieter’s drinking companions sat, then he

looked back at Konrad. It was clear that he knew what had been going on. The two

men did not seem bothered by what had happened to Dieter.

Konrad made his way to the table where the two men were drinking. He picked

up the tankards in front of them and emptied them on the floor.

“You haven’t paid for it,” he told them, “so you don’t drink it.”

They argued angrily and tried to rise, but he grabbed each of them by the hair and

cracked their heads together.

“And I think you should pay for what you’ve already drunk. That’s one pint. How

about the second?” He was still holding them, and he made as if to bang their skulls

hard together once again.

“No,” said one, while the other reached for his purse and emptied a handful of

coins on the table.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Konrad, sweeping up the money. “Enjoy the rest of

your evening.”

“Get rid of him,” said Netzler, when Konrad brought him the payment. He

gestured at Dieter. “Then come and see me.”

Dieter was struggling to rise, and Konrad hauled him to his feet. He slid the

broken blade into its scabbard and stuffed the hilt into Dieter’s shirt, then half-

dragged him to the main entrance and shoved him out of the door and into the snow.

“All you have to do is make sure there’s no trouble,” the landlord told him, a

minute later. “If there is, take care of it as you see fit. Do it quietly, discreetly, and I

don’t want to know about it. Occasionally you may have to help out with the horses,

or do whatever else is required.”

“I’m not serving drinks,” said Konrad, “or clearing tables, or sweeping the floor,

or doing any cleaning.” He had done enough of that during the first part of his life.

“You won’t have to. You share a room with Hans, you get all your food, a

reasonable amount to drink, and whenever the girls upstairs aren’t working you’re

free to make your own arrangements with them.”

61

“With what? How much do I get paid?”

They haggled again, came to an agreement, and Netzler added, “And whenever

you have free time, I’ll buy whatever you bring back from the forest.”

Konrad’s only profession was that of a soldier, and he could have sought

employment as a mercenary in any land within the known world—but he had become

a guard in a tavern.

Working in the coaching house was almost like returning to the start of his life,

and at first he kept remembering his time at the inn in his native village. The aroma

of the fermenting ale, the myriad daily tasks essential to the running of a tavern, they

all reminded him of the past. But now there were plenty of others to do most of the

work, and none of them were ever beaten the way that Otto Brandenheimer had

whipped Konrad nearly every day.

The Grey Stoat had other compensations, and Konrad found himself spending

much of his time with the girls who served drinks in the exclusive gallery, then later

served their clients behind the doors which led off it. They and Konrad all worked

together at the tavern and were colleagues, and sometimes after the last of the

customers had gone home or fallen asleep, they would just talk and joke together,

sharing a drink.

But he was sharing far more with Gina and Marcella the night that the riders

came for him.

A new year had begun, the worst of the winter was over, and both the moons were

high and at their brightest. Even though he was distracted, Konrad should have heard

the approaching column of horses, but he was aware of nothing until the sound of a

scream echoed chillingly through the night.

There were many types of scream, and during his life Konrad had heard them all.

He recognized a scream of absolute terror, a scream which ended so abruptly that it

could only have been terminated by death. It had been the scream of a man, and

Konrad knew that it was Netzler who had just been murdered.

Konrad pushed away the two girls, who by now were holding on to him in fear

instead of passion, and grabbed his clothes and his knife as he looked out of the

window. That was when he saw the riders in front of the Grey Stoat. The moonlight

glinted off their brass helmets and breastplates. Although he could distinguish no

colours because of the darkness, Konrad knew they wore scarlet uniforms, decorated

with pearl buttons, trimmed with braid, and that their flowing plumes denoted their

rank within the force.

They were members of the Imperial guard.

Two of them were below the window, and there were two more riderless horses

with them. There was something strange about the dark figures, but Konrad could not

work out what it was, and neither did he have the time to wonder. He had to escape,

which would not be easy. These were amongst the best troops in the whole Empire,

they had the inn surrounded— and there was no doubt that they had come for him.

He now had a bow and full quiver of arrows, but they were down in the room he

shared with the kitchen boy. It was evident that some of the guard were already in the

tavern, but if he could get to his room before they did, he might be able to despatch a

few of the horsemen and even up the odds.

62

Gina had ventured towards the window and glanced out, and she gasped as she

saw the ominous figures waiting in the courtyard below.

“Don’t go,” she pleaded. “Look after us.”

“They won’t hurt you,” Konrad assured them both—and as he spoke there was

another scream from elsewhere in the inn. This time it was a woman, but it was

another death scream.

“Quickly” he said, beckoning to the girls. “Into the roof.”

They wrapped themselves in blankets and followed him out into the passage.

They pushed open the other doors as they went, signalling for the girls inside to join

them. By the time he reached the ladder to the attic, Konrad had all five of them with

him.

“Not a sound,” he whispered, as he ushered the girls up the steps. “A single noise

and we’re all dead.”

He had already investigated the attic space when examining the whole inn soon

after he arrived. It was a vast dusty area, full of forgotten junk which had been stored

beneath the rafters over the decades. As the girls climbed up into the loft, Konrad

made his way back along the corridor and cautiously peered over the balcony. There

were more screams now, more murders. It seemed that the intruders were putting

everyone to the sword, acting more like a gang of brigands or invading marauders—

but, he supposed, that was what the Imperial guard had become.

Like Taungar and Holwald, these must have been Slaaneshi cultists, and

somehow they had tracked Konrad down to his hiding place. They could not be

certain he was in the Grey Stoat, but that was of little consequence. Like all creatures

of Chaos, they lived only for slaughter and for death. No one would be spared.

All Konrad had was his knife. There seemed little chance of reaching his bow and

arrows. A moment later this was confirmed: the next death cry came from Hans.

They must have found the boy cowering in his room and put an end to his brief

existence. Very soon the killers would have slain everyone on the ground floor and

ventured up to the next level. It would be futile for Konrad to sneak up into the attic,

hoping to hide away in the darkness.

He might be able to surprise the first of the corrupted guardsmen who reached the

gallery, finish him off with the knife, take his sword and hold back the rest of the

attackers for a while. The stairs were narrow, and so only one of them could reach

him at a time. He made his way back to the foot of the ladder.

“Hey!” he hissed, and Marcella’s worried face appeared above him. “I’m taking

away the ladder. Close the hatch and they won’t know you’re there. Have you got

your daggers?”

He saw the flash of blades. The girls all kept knives for their own protection—but

they would not protect them from the Imperial guards.

“Cut through the thatch,” Konrad instructed. “If you have to, get out near the

kitchen chimney.”

He lowered the wooden ladder, but could not leave it where it was because its

purpose would be only too evident. He made his way back along the passageway and

was about to hurl the ladder over the balcony when the first of the guards came into

view at the top of the steps. In the dim illumination, Konrad only caught a glimpse of

brass armour, but he charged straight at the figure, using the end of the ladder as a

63

battering ram. He caught the guard in the chest and drove him back the way he had

come.

He threw the ladder down from the balcony, drew his knife, and ran back into the

room from which he had emerged less than two minutes earlier. Closing the door and

wedging it shut with a chair, he silently opened the window and climbed onto the

narrow ledge outside. The two riders were still below, as were the horses they held

for two of those who were carrying out the massacre.

His only chance was to take one of the horses, and he could only do that by

killing both guardsmen and escaping before the other riders realized what was

happening. It was about twenty feet down to the ground, slightly less to where the

armoured figures sat astride their mounts. They were too far apart for him to reach

them both.

Konrad leapt down at the nearest rider, feet first, knocking him straight out of his

saddle. Rolling over as he hit the ground, he was instantly on his feet and diving at

the man he had dismounted—except he was not a man…

That was why the riders had seemed so strange. They were not human. They were

beastmen. Beastmen wearing the uniforms of the Imperial guard!

The one Konrad had felled had the head of a bull, and its eyes were round and

green, its fur very pale. Recovering from his astonishment, Konrad continued what

he had begun, plunging his knife into the neck of the supine creature he held pinned

down. Its hot blood spurted from the gaping wound in its throat, and it roared out its

fatal agony.

While it was still writhing, Konrad sprang up, and immediately had to duck as the

second bullman’s sword scythed through the air above his head. He dived forward,

his own blade slipping between the leather straps of the bronze cuirass. More evil

blood was spilled, and another bestial cry of pain and rage was heard.

There was not time to kill his second opponent, too many precious seconds were

passing. The unattended horses were shying away, and Konrad managed to grab the

reins of one of them. A moment later his left foot was in the stirrup, and he urged the

animal forward even before he was in the saddle.

A sudden shadow appeared in front of the horse. Steel flashed in the moonlight,

and then the horse was dropping. Konrad threw himself free before the animal pinned

him to the ground with its dead weight.

He twisted his foot as he tried to rise, and he slipped back to the cobbles. Before

he could regain his footing he was surrounded by beastmen: three, then four, then

five. Their swordpoints touched his body, and he gripped his dagger even tighter.

Five Imperial guard swords against one Imperial guard knife. A booted heel came

down upon his hand, hard, and he let go of the knife. Another boot kicked the

weapon away.

“That’s him, that’s him!” yelled a very human voice.

Dieter stood behind the shadowy figures of the beastmen. It must have been he

who had led the riders here, but that was of little importance now. Konrad was

counting the number of beast-men. He had killed one, wounded another, five had

surrounded him, and there was another with Dieter.

“See? I am one of you,” claimed Dieter, speaking to the last of the guardsmen. “I

am in the Imperial guard.”

64

The eighth beastman must have been the leader, and now he finally drew his

sword. He beckoned to Dieter, and the man stepped closer. Then with a single

sweeping blow, the bull creature severed Dieter’s head. The head rolled away into

the darkness, and the acephalous corpse slowly collapsed to the ground.

The leader summoned two of the feral warriors, and they withdrew from Konrad.

A few seconds later, they made their way back to the tavern once more.

Their inhuman commander walked slowly towards Konrad, limping. Beneath his

armour his body must have been even more twisted and deformed than that of the

others.

There was a sudden flare of light. The two marauders had lit torches, carrying the

burning brands into the inn. In the afterglow Konrad glimpsed their leader’s face—

and it was even more hideous than those of the bull-headed Slaaneshi beastmen who

circled him.

He must once have been human, but he had survived some terrible ordeal.

Although almost masked by his helmet, his face was a shapeless mass of blackened,

melted flesh. He had no lips, no nose; his right eye seemed huge because the eyelids

had been burned away, while the left was nothing but a raw hole in his skull.

He held the point of his sword at Konrad’s throat, and Dieter’s warm sticky blood

dripped from the blade.

It was Taungar—or what was left of him.

65

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Grey Stoat was quickly ablaze, its dry wooden frame burning like paper, and in

the glare from the vivid flames Konrad gazed up into the horribly mutilated features

of Taungar.

His whole body must have been as badly devoured as his face. It seemed

impossible for anyone to have survived the inferno which had engulfed Zuntermein’s

mansion—and it seemed impossible for anyone as monstrously crippled as Taungar

to still be alive.

His breathing was hoarse and ragged, as though his lungs were still full of smoke.

His teeth were as black as charcoal, like stumps of burned down trees. His lipless

mouth became even more twisted when he spoke, his words but a rasping whisper.

“Thiss iss why I wass sspared from fire,” he hissed, taking a short gasp of breath

between each syllable. “To kill you, trait-or.”

“You’re the traitor, Taungar,” spat Konrad. “A traitor to everything human!”

Taungar pushed the tip of his sword into the soft flesh beneath Konrad’s chin,

and a few drops of Konrad’s blood mingled with that of Dieter’s.

“You musst hurt like I hurt,” he sighed. “I sstill hurt, and you hurt forever.”

Pressing harder, the drops of blood became a trickle. A fraction harder, and the

blade would have been in Konrad’s windpipe, but then Taungar withdrew his sword

and gestured to the beast-men. Two of them hauled Konrad to his feet, while the third

went to examine their fallen comrade. The predator was clearly dead, and the

bullbeast strode over to the creature Konrad had wounded, who was sitting on the

ground trying to staunch the flow of blood from its wounded side.

The other two were inside the tavern, carrying out their incendiary task. Although

the pair who supported Konrad maintained a grip of iron, Taungar had limped back

out of reach. He must have remembered how Konrad had burst free when he had

been one of those holding him captive in Zuntermein’s unholy temple.

“Pray to your god for help,” he taunted. He must have believed that Konrad, like

Krysten, was an acolyte of Khorne.

“I need no help to deal with you and your bastard god!”

Taungar issued a guttural command in the mutant tongue, and a blow to the side

of Konrad’s head almost knocked him unconscious. One of the beastmen had hit him

with his fist, and it felt as hard as rock. His head fell forwards, and blood oozed from

the wound in his scalp and streamed down the side of his face. Then one of the

creatures ripped a strip from Konrad’s tunic and wedged it into his mouth to ensure

his silence.

He wondered whether the warped guards had human bodies beneath their armour,

or whether the fist which hit him had felt so hard because it was a mutated hoof.

66

They stood upright like men, but was their flesh covered in pale fur? Their inhuman

heads were oversized, and there were holes in their brass helmets through which their

twisted horns protruded. Their breath smelled foul, and they were as hungry for his

blood as was Taungar.

Konrad was gagged; he was held as if in shackles from head to foot; he had no

weapon; he was surrounded by beastmen—beastmen who seemed to be members of

the Empire’s elite military battalion; and he could feel the heat from the blazing

coaching inn searing his skin. The heat did not seem to bother his captors, protected

by their armour and their bestial hides, and it was too late to make any difference to

Taungar.

It seemed that Taungar had been the only one to escape from the ruins of

Zuntermein’s heathen church. Did he plan to take his vengeance in a similar manner,

by burning Konrad alive? Was that why he had ordered the tavern to be torched, so

that it would be where Konrad’s living body was cremated? But Taungar had

threatened a slow death, and it was only when they talked of maiming and murder

that Chaos cultists were likely to be speaking truthfully.

All Konrad could do was hope that his two captors would slacken their grip for a

moment. Each of them was taller and heavier than he, they were armoured and

armed. When the other two returned from burning down the tavern, the odds would

be insuperable. But he was held so tightly it seemed that if they should grip a fraction

harder, his flesh would tear and his bones snap.

“Plann-ed what to do if ev-er found you, Konrad,” whispered Taungar. “Had sso

ma-ny i-de-ass…”

Konrad could only see the lower half of Taungar, and he saw him raise his sword,

once again placing it under his hostage’s chin. He used it as a lever to raise Konrad’s

head, knowing that he was conscious. They stared at each other, Taungar’s one

remaining eye gazing out from the ruins of his face.

“Sstart with your eyess,” added Taungar, and his swordpoint was suddenly

against the lower lid of Konrad’s left eye.

Konrad jerked his head back instinctively, and he was able to move it an inch or

two before it became locked rigid by the gauntlet of one of the bullmen. The tip of

the sword returned towards his left eye, this time aiming straight for the pupil. There

was still blood on the sword, the blade glinted in the light from the fire—and Konrad

realized that this was the last thing his left eye would ever see.

He tried to lean further back or to turn his head, but it was impossible. He closed

both his eyes, tensing himself for the inevitable pain as his eyeball became skewered

upon Taungar’s sword.

Then suddenly his head snapped back and around, he felt the blade slice across

the side of his face, cutting through the flesh, scraping his cheek bone, and he was

half-falling…

Only half, because one of his captors was still restraining him—but the other had

let go, crying out in agony as he released Konrad.

Konrad opened his eyes and saw Taungar looking past him, but without

hesitating he spun around and drove his right fist into the bovine face of the cultist

who still clung to his left arm. The other beastman was writhing on the ground,

screaming—dying. Under the impact of Konrad’s blow, the second one staggered

67

back a pace, and a moment later he also howled in mortal agony as he was attacked

from behind.

Dodging aside as Taungar rushed forward, Konrad pulled the gag from his

mouth, glanced back and saw the dark shape of an armoured figure behind him. The

figure wore black armour, carried a black sword with which he had despatched

Konrad’s captors, and his black helmet was forged into the shape of an animal’s

head, the head of a…

Wolf!

“I want him!” Konrad yelled, as the black knight levelled his sword to impale

Taungar.

Wolf sidestepped, and Taungar lurched past him. Konrad seized one of the dying

beastmen’s swords, and Taungar turned to face him. The bull-thing who had been

tending the one Konrad had earlier wounded raced at Wolf, and Wolf engaged the

creature in combat.

Taungar and Konrad gazed at each other. Taungar raised his sword vertically in

front of his face in a duelling salute, and Konrad did the same.

“When did you become a slave to Chaos?” he asked.

Taungar slowly shook his deformed head, and made an ugly choking noise at the

back of his throat—it was the nearest sound he could make to a laugh.

“Sslave? Ne-ver! Be-came free in Praag. Thought wass dead, but made rea-lly a-

live.”

“You won’t be alive for long!”

They lowered their swords, crossing them, and the two Imperial guard blades

touched lightly for a moment—and then the battle to the death began.

Konrad pressed hard, wanting to finish off his opponent swiftly. The advantage

should have been with him. He was fit, whereas Taungar’s body had been twisted

and bent by the conflagration. But Taungar was an expert swordsman, making up in

experience what he lacked in agility. It was his combat skills which had kept him

alive long enough to become a veteran trooper—but it was his allegiance to Chaos

which had kept him alive more recently.

Taungar was also wearing armour, and that protected him from most of Konrad’s

thrusts. Konrad, however, had to spring back out of range whenever the sergeant’s

blade avoided his defence. If he were hit, he would be done for. Already he was

losing blood from his neck, his scalp, his cheek.

The swords rang together, and there were echoing clashes from the blades of the

other two combatants several yards away. Then there came an agonized cry, an

agonized bestial cry, and Wolf’s enemy was down, its ululating howl a mourning

lament for its own imminent death. Wolf left his enemy bleeding and kicking and

writhing, then went to finish off the beastman that Konrad had earlier wounded. The

creature tried to rise, but all it could do was attempt to crawl away. It did not get far.

And still Konrad could not overcome his own opponent. Even with one eye,

Taungar was able to accurately judge the strokes which were aimed at him, parrying

and then counter-attacking. His senses were more than human, although he had

become less than human, and it was the malignant powers within him which granted

the sergeant such strength.

68

Each fought with only a sword, neither carried a shield. The two beastmen that

Wolf first slew both had an Imperial guard blade, one of which Konrad now wielded.

That meant there was another weapon lying near. He backed towards the corpses, and

Taungar drove him so hard that he stumbled against the first of the bodies, almost

falling. Taungar’s blade sliced through the air, and Konrad avoided decapitation by

but a moment. He bent down, seized the other sword, then twisted around and came

up facing Taungar once more.

He held the new blade in his left hand, keeping it behind his back, and continued

to fight with the one in his right. When Taungar next lunged forward, Konrad caught

the sword with his own, and the blade slid down onto his quillons. He forced his

enemy’s arm away, further and further to one side.

Then he struck with the second sword, driving it straight into Taungar’s only eye,

through into his brain and out from the back of his skull.

Taungar’s jaws opened, but before he could scream his mouth was full of blood,

which silenced him forever. Konrad pushed his left hand forward a little more,

released the sword hilt, and Taungar fell backwards.

Konrad stared around. All the other beastmen lay stretched out on the ground,

their bodies illuminated by the blazing tavern. Wolf had slain them all—if it was

Wolf.

It could have been someone else within the black armour. Although he was

apparently an ally who had come to Konrad’s aid, that meant little. As well as being

the enemy of those he had defeated, he may still have been Konrad’s foe.

The black figure stabbed his sword into the ground.

“Clean that,” he said—and it was indeed Wolf.

He pulled off his helmet, and Konrad saw the face of the man who had been his

master but had become his friend. His white hair and beard were still cropped short,

and there could be no changing the sharpened teeth or the black tattoos which made

his face look like the animal he was named after.

“There are two more inside,” said Konrad, lowering his own sword and wiping at

the blood which covered half his face. He turned towards the burning coach inn.

Flames erupted from every window, from each doorway.

“I know,” said Wolf. “And they won’t be coming out.”

They would not be the only ones who did not emerge, Konrad realized, as he

moved quickly back to avoid a piece of blazing timber which came crashing down

near where he had been standing. The tavern had become a roaring inferno.

The thatched roof was burning fiercely and suddenly most of it collapsed. Konrad

hoped that the girls had escaped through the roof; no one who had remained in the

loft space beneath could possibly have survived. The whole inn had become rapidly

transformed into one huge mass of burning firewood.

“Clean that,” Wolf repeated. “You owe me two days.”

“And are you going to demand another five years for saving my life this time?”

asked Konrad, as he picked up the black sword.

“If I asked you for five years each time I rescued you, you’d be serving me for all

eternity.” Wolf shook his head in mock bewilderment. “I can’t understand how

you’ve survived all these months without me.”

69

When Wolf had fought and killed Otto Krieshmier and saved Konrad from being

hung, Konrad had agreed to serve the mercenary as his squire for exactly five years.

That time had almost expired when he left the injured Wolf in Anvila’s care and went

in search of the bronze warrior. He did not mention that he had saved Wolf’s life a

short time before that, freeing him from the goblin swarm that had taken him

prisoner, because Wolf knew it full well.

“How did you find me?” asked Konrad.

Wolf shrugged. “Chance,” he said.

“There’s no such thing as—” Konrad began, but then he noticed that Wolf was

grinning, showing his sharpened teeth.

Konrad wiped the black blade clean on the cloak of one of the beastmen, while

Wolf vanished in the darkness. When he returned, he was riding a black steed and

leading a packhorse.

The former must have been the replacement for Midnight, his white stallion

which had been killed by the goblins who had taken him captive.

“Let’s go,” said Wolf, accepting his blade and sheathing it.

Konrad was tempted to ask Where? Instead he went in search of a mount for

himself.

He had always been warned against touching enemy weapons, because they had

absorbed traces of corruption from their previous owners. It was only recently that

Konrad had become aware this meant the taint of Chaos—the word had been

unfamiliar to him, although its insidious effects were not—but he was already one of

the damned and so it was too late.

The first time he had held such a weapon was when he had returned to his village,

or where his village had been, soon after the place had been annihilated. A trio of

crimson and gold creatures had swooped down upon him and Wolf, and he had

forced one of them to drop its sword. When he picked it up, Konrad had felt a surge

of power flow through his whole body. He had touched many inhuman weapons

since, but never again sensed such latent potency.

The sword with which he had fought Taungar felt like any other sword. He

examined it, thinking of the beastman to whom it had belonged. Could that creature

really have been a member of the Imperial guard? How many of the elite force had

been similarly corrupted by the foul influence of Chaos? How many of them served

Slaanesh instead of the Emperor?

And what of all the other military forces within Altdorf? Had they been similarly

subverted? From the city watch, up through the Reikland army and all the other

Imperial regiments, which of them could be trusted? How many owed their loyalty to

the Emperor—and how many to the perverted powers of darkness?

Taungar was a member of the Imperial bodyguard, but he was a traitor, one of the

damned. Konrad now realized why the sergeant had been unconcerned to hear of

Gaxar’s plot to replace Karl-Franz with an impostor. Although he had thought that

the threat to the Emperor must have ended with the grey seer’s death, that was not

necessarily so. Skullface still lived. He had been with Gaxar, and he must have been

intimately involved with the diabolic scheme.

Konrad took a scabbard and sheathed the sword. He did not bother with any of

the armour—the bronze suit was too close in his memory and he did not wish to be

70

reminded how he had been trapped. He managed to find his own dagger, then

approached one of the horses which had not fled very far from the fire, took its reins

and climbed into the saddle.

Wolf said nothing about Konrad’s steed or his armament. He passed him the

packhorse’s leading rein, and Konrad followed the mercenary through the dark and

silent village.

All the doors were locked, the windows shuttered, the inhabitants hiding away in

total terror from the devastating eruption of violence which had invaded their tranquil

lives.

As they rode away, Konrad glanced back at the tavern. The flames were no

longer so fierce; there was not much left to burn. By dawn, all that remained would

be charred embers and a few blackened bones amongst the smouldering ashes.

Wolf also looked over his shoulder at the blaze.

“Pity,” he said. “That was the only place to get a drink for miles.”

“I saw them on the road halfway between here and Altdorf,” said Wolf. They were

next to another fire, but one which Konrad had lit to keep them warm during the last

long hours of darkness. “And I decided to follow and find out what they were up to.

Then I saw you.”

“What were you doing on that road?” asked Konrad.

Wolf stared at the fire, and finally he said: “I was in the capital, then I left. I

could have taken any road, but that was the one I chose. Or maybe it was chosen for

me.” He kept gazing into the flames, then asked: “And you, Konrad, what have you

been doing since the first day of summer?”

Konrad shrugged, not knowing where to begin, not even knowing how much he

wanted to tell Wolf. There was much that he would never reveal to anyone. Apart

from Elyssa, Wolf had been the most important person in his life; but so much had

happened to Konrad since they had gone their different ways that Wolf seemed

almost a stranger.

“I saw the bronze warrior,” said Konrad. “Did Anvila tell you that?”

Wolf nodded.

“I’d last seen him five years previously, five years exactly. That was the day

before my village was wiped out by a horde of beast-men. The day after I saw him in

Kislev, the mine was destroyed by an army of outlanders.”

In the gloom, Wolf nodded again. “Did you find him?”

“He’d gone by the time I was down from the mountains.” That was true, but it

was also true that Konrad had found the bronze warrior some time later. He did not

mention that yet, and he did not know whether he would. “You once told me he was

your brother, your twin brother, and you said he was worse than dead. A creature of

Chaos?”

“That’s right.”

“How did it happen?”

Wolf said nothing for a while. He continued staring into the flames of the

campfire, and Konrad thought that he was not going to answer, but then he began to

speak.

71

“I was the eldest, by a few minutes. We were physically identical, although my

hair was white and Jurgen’s was black; but in every other way we were complete

opposites. We may have started off alike, but Jurgen became… different. His interest

in sorcery and the black arts led to his corruption. He came to believe that he was

only half a person, that he would not be complete until he destroyed me and absorbed

all of my being. He was convinced that when he killed me, it must be by force of

arms, not by magic. He created the bronze armour to wear when we fought. But… it

didn’t happen like that.”

Wolf became silent once more, and Konrad wondered if he had ever admitted this

to anyone else. He was still staring into the flames, but his eyes were focused far

away—upon a part of his life which was long gone.

“Betrayed by the person closest to you,” Konrad said softly, remembering

something Wolf had said soon after they first met, but Wolf either did not hear or

pretended not to.

Konrad wondered about Wolf’s own armour, the black metal suit which he had

worn for so long. The heavy black sword was the same one he had carried over half a

decade ago; the black shield which bore no emblem was the same. Few weapons

lasted that long, because the blood of beastmen and their foul allies acted like acid,

rusting metal and causing it to weaken and decay. Wolf’s sword had caused much

blood to flow, but there was still no trace of damage to the blade. Was there some

connection between the bronze armour and the black? The former had contained

warpstone—but the latter…?

If it had been anyone else but Wolf, Konrad would have suspected that some

magical process had been used during the fabrication of the black armour. But Wolf

had always hated magic and magicians, and possibly that hatred had originated with

his twin brother’s treachery.

It was Jurgen von Neuwald who had constructed the bronze armour, and

Litzenreich who had dismantled it. Wolf’s brother and the Middenheim magician:

another strand. The more Konrad knew, the more complex the web which held him

became.

The bronze armour must have devoured Jurgen, leeching his lifeforce in exactly

the same way that it had begun to consume Konrad. As well as Jurgen and Konrad,

the Chaos armour must have had many other wearers, all of whom had been similarly

sucked dry. Jurgen was the first, Konrad the last.

Konrad waited for Wolf to continue, but the only sound was the crackle of

burning firewood and the distant cry of an owl in the forest. In the silence, he touched

the bandage around his neck. The blood was now dry, the wound had begun to close

up, and so he loosened the strip of cotton slightly. His scalp and cheek were similarly

swathed with pieces of fabric.

At one time, Konrad would have been worried that he might die from the

poisoned touch of a marauder’s blade. A seemingly harmless cut could lead to an

agonizing death, as if bitten by a venomous snake. But he had been wounded so

frequently over the years, and always recovered, that by the time he left the frontier

he was no longer concerned by such injuries. It was possible that one might die in

such a painful fashion, if a minor wound grew worse instead of better, but not

probable.

72

For a moment, Konrad thought of Taungar and what had happened to him. The

sergeant had mentioned how he almost died during the Siege of Praag; instead he had

become a creature of Chaos. Was that what sometimes happened to warriors who

fought against the northern invaders? They became infected by the corruption all

around them. Perhaps a wound might not lead to death but instead cause

transformation, exactly as the bite of a vampire could kill but also create another such

being. This might be one method by which the legions of damnation increased their

numbers, recruiting from the very forces who strived to throw them back into the

infernal regions whence they had been spawned.

In a few brief sentences, Wolf had revealed more of his early life that he had

done during the five years Konrad had served him. He continued gazing into his past,

although it seemed that he would say nothing else about his brother, the first warrior

in bronze; but Konrad had more questions.

“When we first met,” he said, “I was carrying a quiver made from rippled black

hide. Remember?”

He thought that Wolf had not heard, but after a few seconds he shook his head.

“It bore a golden crest,” Konrad continued. “A mailed fist between a pair of

crossed arrows. I asked if you recognized the emblem. You denied it, but I could tell

it seemed familiar to you.”

“Yes,” said Wolf, after a few more seconds, “I do remember. I had seen the coat

of arms before. It was on a shield.”

A shield! The shield which now belonged to the skaven Konrad had named Silver

Eye. Yet another strand in the web…

“Whose shield?” Konrad demanded.

There was more silence, until Wolf said: “An enemy, an enemy who could have

slain me but instead spared my life.”

“Who?”

This must have been the person who had originally owned the bow and arrows

Elyssa had given to Konrad. And this was yet another strand, he realized, which

linked Wolf to Elyssa.

“An elf,” said Wolf.

“An elf?” That would explain what Konrad had been told at the College of

Heraldry: the enigmatic coat of arms was not human.

“We were enemies. He could have killed me. He didn’t.”

“How long ago?”

“Twenty years.” Wolf nodded slowly, as though counting each of the passing

years. “Or more.”

“Where?”

“Middenheim way.”

Could this indeed be the answer to Elyssa’s past? That her father had been an elf?

That the weapons she gave to Konrad had unknowingly belonged to her true father?

“Near where we met?” asked Konrad.

“Possibly.”

“What happened to the elf, to his weapons?”

“I don’t know. I’d tried to forget all about him—until I saw you with the quiver.”

73

“What was the elf’s name?”

Wolf shrugged.

Konrad leaned back, staring up at the stars. It was a dark night now that

Mannslieb had sunk below the horizon. The world’s greater moon was named after

Manann, god of the seas. “Beloved of Manann” had been full tonight and would be

so again in another twenty-five days. But Morrslieb was still high in the heavens, and

its unnatural glow cast very little light upon the world below. Named after the god of

death, Morr, its size was irregular and the sequence of its appearance unpredictable.

Sometimes it was larger, sometimes smaller, and its shape seemed to change almost

every night. One legend claimed that “Beloved of Morr” consisted entirely of

warpstone. This was a common belief amongst Chaos worshippers, who held their

blasphemous ceremonies whenever Morrslieb was at its greatest dimension.

Kastring’s Khorne-worshipping cultists had sacrificed to the blood deity whenever

the lesser moon was full. Tonight Morrslieb had been at its maximum, and Taungar’s

Slaaneshi acolytes had come hunting for Konrad.

“What happened to Anvila?” asked Konrad, because the female dwarf seemed to

be the one person who had no connection with anything else in his life.

“She spent days copying down all the runes in the temple we found,” said Wolf.

“The goblins never came back, I’m glad to say. When I’d recovered enough to travel,

we headed back down the mountain, found the horses you’d left for us, then returned

to the mine. Or what was left of it. That was when we said farewell. Anvila made for

the World’s Edge Mountains. She was returning to her university in Everpeak,

Karaz-a-Karak as the dwarfs call it—‘The Eternal Way to the Pinnacle’. She wanted

to write a book on her discoveries. I rode east, finally arriving in Altdorf. Things had

changed since I was there last, and all for the worse. There was nothing for me in the

capital, so I left. And here we are.”

The mercenary did not look much different from the day that he and Konrad had

first encountered one another, although his face was more marked—with both the

lines of age and the scars of combat.

“Was the Emperor back in Altdorf?” asked Konrad.

“He decided to winter in Talabheim, but there were stories of some romantic

liaison being the real reason for him staying there. That was why he sent the Empress

back to Altdorf, not because he was busy with matters of state. Some say he was

having an affair with Arch Lector Aglim’s niece, some that it is Duchess Elise

Kreiglitz-Untermensch herself who has claimed the Emperor’s affections, while

others report that he spends every night in the temple of Sigmar—with a different

priestess each time.”

Wolf laughed. “Sometimes I regret not having worn the velvet cloak. I would

have made a wonderful courtier, spreading gossip and inventing rumours. But I

suppose I would have missed out on so much else in life.” He reached inside his

tunic, scratched himself, then drew out his hand. His index finger and thumb were

pinched together. “But you get a better class of flea in the Imperial palace.”

“When he gets back to Altdorf, the Emperor will be killed and an impostor placed

upon the Imperial throne.”

Wolf nodded as casually as if he had been told the time of day. He poked at the

fire with a branch, then threw a few more sticks onto the blaze.

74

“How do you know?” he asked. “You’ve managed to avoid telling me anything

about what has happened to you.”

“I left Kislev,” said Konrad, avoiding all mention of Kastring. “I went to

Middenheim,” he continued, avoiding any reference to the bronze armour and

Litzenreich. “I arrived in Altdorf,” he added, avoiding what he could have said about

Gaxar and the skaven. “And I ended up here,” he concluded, avoiding everything

else.

For the first time since they had begun speaking, Wolf looked directly at Konrad,

although again it took a while before he spoke.

“You’re different,” he said. “Something has changed you. Despite everything that

occurred in Praag, all the atrocities you must have witnessed, all the impossible

creatures you must have fought, you weren’t like this when you returned from the

siege. That can only mean something far, far worse must have happened to you since

we parted. There’s a darkness to your soul, Konrad.”

Konrad had never heard Wolf use such a phrase. Although he had professed to

belong to the cult of Sigmar, and claimed once to have planned joining the Order of

the Anvil, Wolf had never seemed very religious. In fact, Konrad had followed

Wolf’s lead in paying little attention to prayer and worship.

Soldiers on the frontier between humanity and the hellish invaders had no time

for religion, they were far more concerned with their own mortal survival than with

spiritual existence.

“Chaos,” said Konrad. “That was the very last thing you said to me before I left

the dwarf temple. What did you mean by that? It was a warning, but…”

Wolf yawned and stretched out his arms, then said: “Tomorrow we head for the

Wasteland.”

“The Wasteland?”

“You will do as I say,” Wolf told him. “For the next two days at least. And if you

have any sense, you will stay with me as long as necessary. I know now that you’re

the one.”

“What one?”

“The one I must take. There’s someone you must meet, someone who can answer

all your questions, someone who can tell what has really happened to you over the

past months.”

Konrad stared at Wolf. Someone who could answer all his questions…?

As he gazed across the flickering flames of their campfire, Konrad realized that

he and Wolf had more in common than previously. It was Jurgen von Neuwald’s

armour and the warp-stone used to release him from within the bronze prison which

had tainted Konrad; but long before then, Wolf had already been corrupted by the

seductive kiss of Chaos.

75

CHAPTER NINE

The Wasteland lay to the west of the Reikwald Forest, and it took much longer than

two days for Konrad and Wolf to reach the border. By then, Konrad’s five years of

service had expired. Neither of them made any mention of the subject.

The Wasteland was barren and inhospitable, a cold wind from the Middle Sea

perpetually sweeping across the plains, and so poorly populated that there was only

one town in the whole desolate country. That was Marienburg, the largest port in the

entire Old World. But that was not where Wolf led Konrad, and neither did they stop

at any of the small villages or farms where the rest of the inhabitants dwelled.

Wolf would not reveal their destination or who would be there when they reached

it, and Konrad soon gave up asking. This was the reason that Wolf had suddenly

appeared out of the night to rescue Konrad from the bull-headed beastmen: so that

they would ride together into the Wasteland to meet the mysterious “someone” who

could answer all of Konrad’s questions on Chaos.

Or at least he could pretend this was what fate had intended, that there was

nothing else he could do but allow himself to be carried along with the course laid

out for him. And the further west that he travelled, the more he seemed to escape the

web which had threatened to trap him amongst the interwoven strands of his life.

Wolf had also refused to reveal how and when he had become infected by Chaos.

Konrad could understand that, because he was unwilling to speak about his time

within the bronze armour and what it had done to him. But the fact that Wolf had

survived for so long since he must have been affected, and that he was still such an

implacable enemy of Chaos, gave Konrad renewed hope. He knew that the touch of

warpstone had condemned him to ultimate destruction, but perhaps he could delay

the time of his inevitable doom.

For as long as he had known him, Wolf had been fighting against Chaos,

although he had never used that word. Wolf had been aware that the battle took on

many forms, that the world was in danger upon many fronts. Because he was a

warrior, he had chosen to combat the legions of damnation the only way he knew—

by force of arms. He used military might to hold back the northern hordes which

sought to break through the frontier defences in Kislev, and in this he had proved

very successful. The mercenary army he built up had even pushed the barbaric tribes

back towards their own benighted realms. But then came the day when the feral

invaders had swarmed south, eliminating the mining town and destroying everyone

within. Or almost everyone. Krysten had been the final victim.

Konrad and Wolf rode on, day after day, across the wilderness. The Wasteland

was aptly named. The grass was parched and withered, the occasional tree was

stunted and twisted.

76

There was hardly enough vegetation to sustain the few wild birds and animals

that they saw. Little wonder that the population was so small. It was almost as if the

whole land had already been claimed as Chaos territory and then abandoned as being

worthless.

There were no roads, because there were not enough people to use them. There

were not even rough tracks across the lifeless ground, and Konrad wondered how

Wolf could possibly know which direction to take. Where there was nothing,

however, it did not matter which compass point was chosen.

Finally, Konrad saw a point of green on the horizon. As the distance reduced, it

grew into a clump of woodland. By then it was almost dusk, and they set up camp for

the night. The next morning, the woods were identifiable as a small island of

vegetation, entirely surrounded by a wide lake. The presence of water could not alone

explain the fertility of the land in the centre. It was almost like a castle in the middle

of a moat, but with trees instead of stone walls.

“This is where Galea lives,” said Wolf, reining in his horse as they reached the

edge of the water.

“Who,” asked Konrad, doubting that he would be given a proper answer, “is

Galea?”

“The wisest person in the world.” Wolf looked at Konrad, then grinned. “The Old

World, at least.”

“He’s going to tell me everything I want to know?”

“And plenty you didn’t know that you wanted to know.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“Yes.” Wolf nodded thoughtfully, remembering.

“Then let’s go.” Konrad nudged his horse towards the water.

“No!” Wolf stretched out his hand to hold him back. “You have to go across

alone, barefoot, bareheaded, without any weapons, without any armour.”

Konrad stared at him for a few seconds. “If you say so.” He dismounted,

unbuckled his sword belt, dropped his dagger and removed his boots. He looked at

the water again. “You sure about this?”

“Yes. It’s not deep. You can wade across.”

It was about fifty yards to the island, which itself was of a similar diameter.

“When you get to the middle,” Wolf added, “you have to immerse yourself

completely. Three times.”

“You sure you’re sure?”

“Yes. I’ve been there once, and no one is allowed to return.”

Konrad stared up at Wolf. He trusted him totally, but he still felt uneasy. It must

have been years since Wolf had come here; things might have been different now.

“Everything I want to know?” he said, gazing across the water.

“That’s right. And don’t eat anything, don’t touch anything, don’t try to bring

anything back, and you must take something as a gift.”

“What?”

“This,” said Wolf, and he gave Konrad a small ivory comb. “I’ve had it for a long

time, waiting for this day.”

77

Konrad examined the comb. There seemed nothing special about it, and he tucked

it into his tunic pocket. “Anything else you want to tell me about Galea?”

“You’ll find out when you get there. It was a surprise to me, so I don’t want to

spoil your surprise.”

“This had better be worth it.”

“It will be,” Wolf assured him.

Konrad turned and walked into the water. It was very cold, and within a few

paces the level had reached his waist. “Am I allowed to swim across?” he called.

“I don’t know, but make sure you duck completely below the surface three times

when you reach the middle.”

Like bowing in a temple, thought Konrad, as he took two more slow steps

through the water. The level came up to his chest, but after two more steps he had

gone no deeper. He swam the rest of the way, and halfway across he kicked himself

below the surface, diving down three times before continuing to the other side.

As he waded ashore, he discovered that the mud above the water line was white.

This seemed so odd that he picked up a handful of the stuff and examined it. He

noticed that there were pieces of bone mixed in with the white mud—and then he

realized that all of it was bone! The entire island was surrounded by a wall of

powdered bone, which could only have been washed there by the waters of the lake.

Was this the fate suffered by those who disobeyed the proper etiquette? The ones

who wore hats or carried swords or forgot to pay the correct obeisance midway

across the lake…?

If so, there must have been many hundreds of them, thousands of them who had

perished in the cold waters. Konrad shivered and rubbed his hand on his wet

breeches, trying not to think what it was that he was wiping off.

The island seemed larger than it had first appeared, he noticed, much larger; and

when he glanced back over the lake to where he had left Wolf, there was nothing in

sight but water.

He should have been able to see to the other side, fifty yards away, but it was as if

nothing else existed except the lake he had crossed. It appeared as wide as the Sea of

Claws, whose shores lay hundreds of miles apart. He was tempted to turn back, but

decided that might not be wise, that he would never reach the opposite side, which

could now be hundreds of miles away. That was probably another factor which had

increased the number of corpses swallowed by the lake, adding to the bleached bones

which encircled the verdant island.

As Konrad began making his way within, he realized that it was far warmer than

a few minutes ago, and that his clothes were drying rapidly in the heat. The sun was

almost directly above, higher than he had ever seen it before; the sky was a rich

shade of blue, a colour only seen at the height of summer; and he had never seen

trees and plants as exotic as the ones which grew here. He was astonished by what he

saw. It was as if he were in another land.

Perhaps he was. This was no mere island he had reached. In crossing the water he

seemed to have arrived upon another continent…

He was gazing around in amazement when he heard a savage growl, which

immediately brought him to his senses. He automatically reached for his knife; he

78

had carried one for almost as long as he could remember. The first was the wavy-

bladed dagger he had stolen from a soldier; the trooper had been part of a force which

came to his village to eliminate all the beastmen in that part of the forest. Years later,

Wolf had identified the blade as a kris, saying that it had come from the other side of

the world. Konrad’s most recent knife was the one he had been issued with when he

enlisted in the Imperial guard. Now he had no such blade.

The growling grew louder, came closer. There was some kind of ferocious beast

stalking towards him through the thick undergrowth, and Konrad quickly looked

around for something he could use as a weapon. A tree branch would make a club,

and he reached up to snap one free from the nearest trunk. But as he wrapped his

hands around the branch, he remembered Wolf’s warning; don’t touch anything.

He hesitated, then let go and stepped back. His only defences were those with

which he had been born, but which had served him well when he had no others: his

bare hands.

A moment later the creature appeared, striding confidently towards him. It was a

huge black cat, a diamond of white fur on its chest. He had expected some kind of

preternatural creature, but this was a leopard, its fur sleek and shiny, its fangs long

and sharp.

The animal slowed, then halted, its tail slowly twitching, and it opened its huge

jaws and roared out its challenge to him.

He would have preferred to confront a beastman, because that kind of creature

would have attacked immediately. A wild animal was much less predictable and

therefore more dangerous.

“Hello,” said a voice to Konrad’s side, and he spun around rapidly.

A young girl stood four or five yards away from him, eating an apple. She was

about eight years old, her black hair braided into two plaits. Barefoot, she wore a

peasant dress which had been patched and mended many times. Her face was dirty,

and there was something strange about her expression, but Konrad could not work

out what it was.

“Er… hello,” he replied, and he glanced back at the black leopard.

“He won’t hurt you,” said the girl. “Not unless you’re bad. Have you brought me

a present?”

Konrad kept watching the animal, which was still quietly growling. “I’ve come to

see Galea. Do you know where he is?”

“I’m Galea.”

Konrad glanced briefly at the girl again.

“I am,” she said, as she took another bite from her apple. “Really.”

Konrad stared at her. The wisest person in the world; This must have been the

surprise that Wolf had mentioned.

“Who led you here?” she asked.

“Wolf. Wolfgang von Neuwald.”

Galea nodded. “I remember. He brought me a bracelet and I told him I wanted a

comb.”

It seemed impossible that Wolf had seen this girl when he visited the island, that

she had spoken to him. Even had he been here immediately before leaving for the

79

frontier, a few weeks before he met Konrad, she could only have been two or three

years old at the time.

It seemed impossible, but evidently it had happened.

“This is for you,” said Konrad, and he held out the ivory comb.

“Oh, thank you!” Galea said, stepping forward and accepting it. She pulled at one

of her plaits, examining the frayed piece of rag with which it was tied. “I would like

some ribbon next time. Silk, I think, and red.”

“Next time?” said Konrad, gazing into her eyes—and realizing what was so

strange about her appearance.

Her eyes were like those of a cat. The pupils were narrow ovals of black, but

otherwise they were completely gold.

He glanced back at the leopard, which was no longer growling. Its eyes were the

same as the girl’s. Exactly the same. And her hair was as black as the animal’s fur.

Galea walked towards the leopard, reaching out to rub its neck. Its head came to a

level with her shoulders, and it began purring as she stroked behind its ears.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Konrad.”

“Come with me, Konrad,” she said. She turned and walked away through the

trees, her pet leopard by her side. Konrad looked back and could still see nothing

beyond the shore but water. He followed Galea deeper into the island.

He told her. Everything. Things he had never revealed previously, but now could

finally unburden from deep within himself.

They sat together on the grass, sheltered from the sun in a glade of trees, while

the huge leopard lay by Galea’s side. She had not asked him to speak about himself,

but as soon as he stared into her wise eyes, her feline eyes, he was aware that was

what he should do. Although he had no evidence, Konrad knew he was doing so of

his own volition, that she was exerting no supernatural power over him.

He narrated the story of his life, from his early days before he knew Elyssa, right

through until when he met up with Wolf again. He remembered all the people he had

encountered over the past several years, and how so many of them all seemed to be

linked with one or more of the others. He told of the mysterious golden crest, the

mailed fist between two crossed arrows. He related his fight with the goblins in the

lost dwarf temple, how he had felt a new kind of vitality as he massacred the green

fiends, and how he had falsely believed he was wielding a double-headed battle

hammer instead of a waraxe. He spoke about his time within the bronze armour and

the way he had been corrupted by warpstone. He described the strange visions he had

experienced when Litzenreich and his dwarfs had removed the bronze suit and

believed him dead, of his apparent travels amongst the stars, of his rebirth in his own

body, of memories which were not his own, of confusing the death of Elyssa with

that of Evane: she had been Sigmar’s first love, murdered by a goblin raiding band,

and Konrad originally learned about all of this during his dream, confirming it later

from one of the chronicles of Sigmar’s life.

Most of his story came out unbidden, as though he had rehearsed it for so long,

although occasionally Galea had to prompt him, or ask for clarification or for more

80

specific details. Sometimes he found himself repeating what he had already said, but

most of these were aspects which needed emphasis. And finally he was finished with

his narrative.

He had completely forgotten that he was apparently addressing a young girl,

because he knew that was not what Galea was.

She had sat without moving while Konrad had been talking. Now she unplaited

her hair and began running her new ivory comb through it. Her hair reminded Konrad

of Elyssa’s, and he tried not to think about that. It did not take long for his mind to

become overwhelmed by other matters. As Galea combed, she spoke, and it was her

turn to talk about everything, while all Konrad could do was to sit and listen and

wonder.

“Imagine,” she said, “that the world is an island, an island surrounded by Chaos.

Sometimes the tide rises higher than normal, and the world is threatened because it

may be totally swamped. That is what is happening now.

“Mankind evolved millennia ago, when the world was also flooded by Chaos,

when its raw essence first solidified into warpstone and warpdust. The elves and

dwarfs were not so affected as the new race known as humans. They had their own

times of ascendancy before then, times when they were the superior race; but when

mankind claimed domination, the world was not as it had been. Mixing warpstone

with the substances of our world led to the creation of the Chaos Wastes and of the

mutants who originally dwelled there, but which now roam everywhere. Beastmen

are the product of Chaos arriving upon this world, as are goblins and orcs and skaven

and all manner of foul and perverted beings.

“And humans may also be regarded as the creation of Chaos.

“Within what we call the Old World, the dwarfs had replaced the elves, who had

migrated across the Western Ocean, and now it appeared that the dwarfs would lose

their lands to the goblinoid races. It seemed that the mutants would become rulers of

the lands to the west of the World’s Edge Mountains, but then the eight warring

human tribes who inhabited that region were united by Sigmar. Sigmar allied himself

with the dwarfs, who gave him their sacred warhammer, Ghal-maraz, and together

human and dwarf destroyed the goblin armies at the Battle of Black Fire Pass. This

was two and a half thousand years ago, and Sigmar Heldenhammer—Hammer of the

Goblins—founded the Empire.

“Sigmar is now revered as a god. He has a cathedral in Altdorf, temples

throughout the known world, countless worshippers. The inhabitants of the Empire

are all Sigmar’s children, literally as well as metaphorically; he lived so long ago it

seems inevitable that every human is descended from his line. There is some part of

Sigmar in everyone.”

Galea paused, gazing at Konrad.

“There is more of Sigmar in you than in most,” she said.

He stared at her suspiciously. From what Konrad had already told Galea, it was

easy for her to suggest an association with Sigmar. She knew of Konrad’s battle with

the goblins, when he had imagined himself wielding a hammer instead of an axe,

how he had become imbued with almost supernatural strength. And Konrad had

revealed the dream in which he had confused his own past with the life of Sigmar.

81

“I am not trying to flatter you,” Galea said. “You already suspect that Sigmar has

given you a purpose. And you are correct.”

“What purpose?” demanded Konrad. “What?”

“I do not know the future, although I knew that when Wolf was here that he

would one day lead someone else to me. That is his purpose, Konrad, to guide you as

he has done ever since the day you and he first met.”

Konrad said nothing, he was too busy trying to absorb all the implications of

Galea’s revelations.

“You are important to Sigmar,” she continued, “and this means that you have

many enemies who wish to thwart Sigmar’s intentions. There is one in particular who

appears to have been manipulating various diverse foes in order to further his own

nefarious schemes.”

Konrad knew exactly who Galea meant.

“Skullface! Who is he? What does he want with me?”

It was Galea’s turn to say nothing.

“Tell me more about Sigmar,” said Konrad.

Galea said, “Half a century after becoming Emperor, Sigmar returned to the

World’s Edge Mountains to take Ghal-maraz back to the dwarfs. He was never seen

by human eyes again, and his mortal body is believed to have perished.

“The body is a part of the material world, but the soul is a part of Chaos. In

moments of extreme stress, it is possible for a mortal to summon up the inner

resources of the soul, thus deriving power directly from Chaos. Upon death, the

human spirit returns to Chaos, to join the other souls or to await reincarnation. Few

spirits will be reborn, but those that are become more and more powerful through

each rebirth.

“Chaos is sometimes known as the Sea of Lost Souls. These souls may combine

into a greater whole, a coalescence of energy created by the linking of similar spirits.

These centres of energy are thus created by the very essence of life, and they are

known as the powers of Chaos. Or the gods of Chaos…

“And thus it can be claimed that men make gods in their own image, while the

gods themselves exert their own influence upon mankind. Or is there only one god,

and all others but different aspects of the one deity? Is there only one soul which all

humans share? Is this one soul part of the one god, or is the one god part of the one

soul?

“Good and bad, Law and Chaos. Could one exist without the other? Are they but

different aspects of the same belief?

“All I know is what I have learned. I have learned much, and some of what I have

said may conflict, but that is all we can rely on: our memories, our trust in the

experiences of ourselves and others. Yet human memories are fallible and cannot be

totally relied upon. None of this might be true, or only some of it. What you have told

me might never have occurred, or was not what you believed. Perhaps the dwarfs

never did inhabit the Old World, and the ancient temple you discovered was merely

created the previous day. What is recorded in the history books might only have been

written an hour ago, and similarly the dust which lies across the worn covers of such

82

volumes was the creation of but a moment past. There is no proof and there can be

none.”

Galea had told Konrad this and much more, and then she had said none of it

could be trusted. He had already known that what was true one day might be false the

next.

“Why have you told me all this?” he asked.

“Because you should know,” she said.

He gazed at her, trying to see beyond the figure of a little girl, past her feline

eyes. “Who are you?”

“I am one who was saved. I was possessed by the darker side of Chaos, many

many years ago. I was a daemon, for many many years.”

It was a word Konrad knew, but he could barely imagine its implications.

“But I was released by a far greater force, like the one to which you were being

drawn in your vision of the afterlife—but infinitely more powerful. And that is who I

now serve.”

A white dove had landed on Galea’s shoulder, and now she took hold of it,

stroking its feathers. It began to coo, just as the black leopard had purred when she

had stroked its fur.

“What must I do?” asked Konrad.

“You must do whatever you must.”

“Who am I?”

Galea smiled and shook her head. Konrad did not know whether this meant she

could not answer or would not answer.

She clutched the bird with one hand and suddenly thrust it towards the leopard. A

single bite, a gulp, and the bird was gone down the huge cat’s throat.

The other side of the lake was once more in view as Konrad waded into the cold

water and began swimming back. He felt quite content and had been unwilling to

leave the island, but there was nothing else that he wished to learn. It was only when

he reached the far bank that he realized how little Galea had really told him. There

was some history, which might not have been true; but most of it he already knew,

whether it was true or not. Galea had explained the nature of Chaos, but her

interpretation was not necessarily accurate.

Despite this, he felt reassured by what he had discovered. The world did make

sense, and he had a significant part to play in its events; he had no doubt that in this

Galea had told him the truth. And beyond the world there was another, a greater

realm of existence, and what occurred upon one had a significant effect on events

elsewhere.

Everything was connected, just as all the important people in his own life were

linked. He was unable yet to comprehend the pattern, but at least he knew there was

one; and perhaps eventually he would be able to understand it all.

Konrad had learned nothing of his origins, but that seemed of little consequence

compared with what had been revealed of his focal role. The past no longer mattered,

because it could no longer affect him. What he did now and in the future was far

more important.

83

Wolf was waiting when he arrived back, and he had a fire lit. It was almost dusk,

and Konrad stared at the setting sun.

“I didn’t know I was gone that long,” he said, warming himself by the blaze.

“Three days, you mean?”

“Three days!”

“Time is different there—and everything else.”

Konrad looked back to where he had been, and he nodded in agreement.

“Now where?” asked Wolf.

There could be only one answer. Wolf had been his guide until now, but not any

longer.

“Altdorf,” replied Konrad.

“Me, too. I headed for the frontier because that was where the enemy was. Now

the enemy is in the capital, and it’s an enemy I know how to deal with.” Wolf

gripped the hilt of his sword, pulling the blade slightly out, then sliding it swiftly

back into its oiled black scabbard as if he were thrusting it into an enemy’s flesh.

Konrad was still gazing at Galea’s island. It looked so small, so dark, but he knew

that the sun was still shining down upon its numerous acres.

“I now know that you’re the one,” Wolf had said, after their battle with the

mutated Imperial guards. “The one I must take.” Then he had led Konrad here.

Was this the reason that Wolf had made Konrad his squire, so long ago? Had

everything which had happened over the subsequent years been nothing more than a

prelude to his meeting with Galea?

And, Konrad remembered, it was not until Wolf had seen the black quiver which

he held, the one with the enigmatic emblem, that he had offered Konrad the role of

squire.

“We can be in Marienburg in a few days,” added Wolf, “then take a boat up the

Reik to Altdorf.”

As he stared at what appeared to be an island in the middle of a lake, Konrad

wondered about Wolf’s previous visit here, when it had been he who had made the

journey through the water. How long ago had it been, and who had led him here?

And who was it who had visited Galea previously, when she had asked for the

bracelet that Wolf had taken to her?

He did not ask, because he knew Wolf would not answer. But he wondered if

some day he would return and stand here while another ventured across the lake.

Perhaps he should buy some red silk ribbon at the next opportunity, and carry it with

him until it was time for him to guide someone else to the eternal child.

84

CHAPTER TEN

Less than a century ago, the Wasteland had been part of the Empire; but over the

years the burgomeisters of Marienburg had won a number of concessions for their

city, which was the gateway to the rest of the world for so much of the Empire. With

the backing of Bretonnia, the Wasteland had finally seceded and gained its own

independence.

The mouth of the Reik was a mile from one shore to the opposite bank, but there

were many islands in the delta, so that the river flowed down to the ocean in a series

of narrow tributaries. Marienburg was built upon these islands, the different parts of

the city joined by numerous bridges. Only one such waterway was dredged deep

enough for the largest ships to pass through; and over this there was but one bridge

beneath which the tallest vessels could sail: High Bridge. The major navigable

channel was on the south side of Marienburg, which was where the dock facilities

had developed.

The city was walled to protect itself from raiding pirates and to assert its

independence, and many of the largest houses were themselves fortresses. They

belonged to wealthy merchant families, explained Wolf, traders whose ancestors had

probably been pirates and corsairs. Konrad had once been very impressed by the port

of Erengrad, on the Kislev border, but that was no more than a fishing village when

compared with the size and splendour of the greatest port in the Old World.

He and Wolf gazed across at the city, and to where all the vessels rode at anchor

in the wide bay beyond, waiting for the tide to turn so that they could enter the

harbour. There were ships of every size and description, with pilots and customs

officials being ferried between the foreign vessels by a number of small boats flying

the emblem of Marienburg: a mermaid holding a sword in her right hand, a bag of

coins in her left.

“Let’s get a drink,” said Wolf. “Although now that you’re here, there’s a chance

that every tavern in town will burn down!”

“I thought we were heading for Altdorf.”

We’ll make for one of the dockside inns, that’s the best way to find a passage.

But while we’re there, we might as well refresh ourselves after our journey.”

“How do we pay the boat fare?”

“I have a few funds,” said Wolf, which was probably the most astonishing thing

Konrad had ever heard him say.

Throughout the time he had been with Wolf, Konrad’s total pay had not

amounted to more than a handful of crowns.

Wolf never had any money, even from the very start. When they were heading for

the Kislev frontier, he had swapped his packhorse for their passage to Praag along the

85

River Lynsk. Wolf had hoped to make a fortune while working as mercenary in the

gold mine, and he had dreamed of untold riches from the lost dwarf temple.

“What about the plot to replace the Emperor with an impostor?” he asked, as they

rode towards the Reik.

They both knew this was the reason for returning to Altdorf, but they had not

discussed it until now. Although not a direct descendant, Karl-Franz was the latest of

Sigmar’s heirs—and he had to be protected.

A few months ago, Konrad had felt no concern for the Emperor, but much had

happened since then; and now he knew what his mission must be, what Sigmar

required of him.

He had originally been reluctant to reveal all that had happened to him during the

months since Kislev; and now that he and Wolf were together, comrades again, it no

longer seemed important.

“The skaven have made a doppelganger of the Emperor,” he said. “I’ve seen it.”

At one time, Konrad had been Gaxar’s prisoner deep beneath Middenheim; but

during the human invasion of the skaven lair, while Konrad had been fighting against

Silver Eye, Gaxar had been seen with another human hostage. Litzenreich had

identified the figure as the Emperor. It could not really have been Karl-Franz, and

must have been a replica. Konrad had since seen portraits of the Emperor, and the

likeness was perfect.

This was not the first duplicate Gaxar had produced. The grey seer had also made

a likeness of Konrad—which Konrad had fought and destroyed.

“The only reason the skaven can have for wanting a double of Karl-Franz is so

they can assassinate the real Emperor and replace him with a puppet,” said Konrad.

“The Imperial guard must be in on the plot, which is why they tried to kill me when I

found out.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“The guard seem to have become the minions of Slaanesh, while the god of the

skaven is the Horned Rat. It seems unlikely that these two factions would co-operate.

Perhaps the skaven would ally themselves with Nurgle’s pestilential swarms, but not

the servants of the lord of pleasure. They’d be more likely to rip each other apart.”

“But the rival forces of Chaos do operate together on occasion, when it’s to their

mutual advantage. You know that. And destroying the Emperor, the figurehead of

human resistance, would be exactly what they both want.”

And Konrad knew exactly who had forged this alliance of the damned: Skullface.

He had only ever seen Skullface twice, but his skeletal figure had always been in

the shadows, manipulating and scheming.

It must have been Skullface who had directed the warrior in bronze, luring

Konrad away from the dwarf temple, then ensuring that the suit of armour was there

to capture Konrad when he had escaped from Kastring’s marauding warband. He had

wanted Konrad dead, devoured by the Chaos armour, but Konrad had survived.

It must have been Skullface who had arranged for Krysten to fall into

Zuntermein’s clutches. Corrupted by the depraved beliefs of Khorne during her

86

unimaginable journey from Kislev to Altdorf, she had become the hostage of a

Slaaneshi cult.

Krysten was the lure to entrap Konrad, but once again he had survived.

And it was Skullface who had Elyssa,..

“Maybe,” said Wolf, again. “But what are we going to do about it?”

“We can warn him. Tell him that the Imperial guard are all traitors, that the

skaven intend to destroy him.”

“Write him a letter, you mean?”

“No!”

“You’re right. The postal system isn’t what it was. It would probably arrive too

late.”

Konrad stared at Wolf. “You don’t seem to be taking this very seriously.”

Wolf met his eyes. “And you seem to be taking it too seriously.”

He seemed aware that Konrad had another motive for returning to Altdorf, and

until now Konrad had been unwilling to admit this even to himself.

Elyssa had been tainted by Chaos, and Konrad had considered that she was

forever doomed. But Galea was once far more damned than Elyssa, and her soul had

been redeemed. Perhaps Elyssa, too, could be saved.

“What do you think we should do?” asked Konrad.

“Warn the Emperor, as you said. If he’s not back in Altdorf, we keep on the river

to Talabheim and find him there.”

“Or we could stop in Altdorf to try and find out what is going on—and stop it.”

“Fight the Imperial guard, fight the skaven, find and destroy the impostor? Just

you and me?” Although he had been trying to keep a straight face, Wolf could not

help but smile.

“Have you got a better idea?”

“Maybe.”

Konrad waited, and waited. “What?” he prompted.

“We invade the city.”

“Just you and me?”

“And a few others. We raise an army of mercenaries to attack Altdorf, creating a

diversion while we sneak in and discover what’s really happening.”

“Attack the Imperial capital? That’s quite a diversion. Where do we find this

army?”

“Here.” Wolf gestured towards the city beyond them. “Everyone hates Altdorf

and Altdorfers, even me—and I’m from there. They are so arrogant, believing they’re

far superior to everyone else in the Empire, the Old World, the entire world. We’ll

loot the city, burn it down!”

Konrad stared at him.

Wolf shrugged. “Maybe you can burn down a couple of taverns, Konrad. The

ones which sell the worst ale.”

“How can we raise an army here?”

“We can find the kind of army we want. One that will make enough noise and

call plenty of attention to themselves and waste valuable time while they are all

slaughtered—while we do what we have to do.”

87

On the frontier, Wolf would have no hesitation in allowing a group of his own

men to be killed if he deemed it necessary, offering them as bait to draw the Chaos

clans into a trap where they could be exterminated. But the ones that he sacrificed

were never those he considered true warriors. He regarded most of those who called

themselves mercenaries with as much contempt as the benighted battalions they

fought. Their only function was to die, and it was a bonus if they happened to kill

some of the enemy troops before their own deaths.

Murderers, thieves, bandits, cutpurses, the vermin of the Empire, they all

dignified themselves with the name “mercenary,” believing that the assumed title

granted legitimacy to their brutal cowardice.

This was the reason why Wolf had once said he preferred to consider himself a

“soldier of fortune”; he did not wish to be associated with the gutter thugs who gave

fighting for reward a bad name.

When Wolf and Konrad first arrived at the gold mine, those were the kind of men

who had already been hired as guards. There was little to choose between them and

the miners, all of whom were convicted criminals serving out their sentences. The

guards had probably fled their native lands in order to avoid being jailed; the miners

were the unlucky ones who had been caught.

It was only after Wolf took charge that true soldiers were recruited, men who

knew how to fight face to face, instead of relying upon a knife in the back; men who

had been trained for years, who accepted discipline and would obey orders— most of

the time. The robbers and assassins died, while the real warriors fulfilled their proper

function. This was when Wolf’s professional army began driving back the invaders,

taking the battle to the renegade hordes instead of waiting for the mine to be attacked.

Marienburg stood at the edge of the Old World, and here was where the scum

from every land would gather, because this was as far as they could travel. The city

was full of fugitives, criminals on the run from all over the world, deserters who had

jumped ship as soon as they reached port, desperados who would slit a dozen throats

for the price of a drink.

This was the ideal place for recruiting a force of ersatz mercenaries.

“And we find our army in the harbour taverns?” said Konrad.

“That’s right. And while we’re there, we might as well raise a tankard or two.”

Konrad laughed and shook his head. “I hope you have plenty of funds. You’ll

need a fortune to equip this army and get them to Altdorf.”

“We find some backers,” said Wolf. “They finance the expedition in return for a

share of the profits.”

Konrad watched Wolf as he explained, and he began to wonder if Wolf really did

intend to sack Altdorf, if that was his own motive for returning to the Imperial

capital.

“They’ll expect to make a killing,” Wolf concluded. “And, in a way, they’ll be

right.” He grinned wickedly, his sharpened teeth gleaming. «

“Maybe it would be best if we went to Altdorf alone,” suggested Konrad.

“No, no.” Wolf shook his head. “They know you weren’t killed, so they’ll be

expecting you back again—but they won’t be expecting an invasion. The more the

better.”

88

Konrad had his doubts, but at the moment it seemed futile to argue. They rode on

to where the river bank marked the edge of the city. Marienburg proper began on the

other side of the channel, but over the years numerous buildings had spread along the

southern side of the waterway, and several vessels were berthed there. Wagons and

coaches would cross the river by ferry, but people on horse or on foot could make

their way to the other side via High Bridge.

It was almost sunset, the sky rapidly darkening, as Konrad gazed up at the

structure. It reminded him of the long road which zig-zagged up the mountainside

towards the gates of Middenheim. Although the City of the White Wolf was reached

by a number of viaducts and along a wider and higher road, the route to Marienburg

was in its own way equally spectacular. A huge stone tower was built upon the

southern side of the river, with a roadway coiled around and around, steeply circling

the tower on the outside.

The main bridge in Erengrad had a longer span, but that was built of wood, and

the centre section could be elevated like a drawbridge. The High Bridge, however,

was constructed entirely from massive blocks of stone. These were all wedged

against one another, forming a wide arch that was held in place by its own weight. At

the opposite end, to the north, the bridge abutted a solid rocky cliff where it was

anchored by two heavy pillars.

The toll keeper accepted Wolf’s coins, but the city guards at the base of the tower

barely glanced at him or Konrad before waving them past. The two riders began to

climb, their horses slowly circling towards the top, while the pinnacle grew narrower

towards its apex. Although he was no longer Wolf’s servant, Konrad led the

packhorse, as he had done most of the time, and he gazed at the darkening landscape

all around.

To the east, the direction from which they had come, was the kind of desolate

territory which had given the Wasteland its name. To the north, beyond the gulf, lay

the Sea of Claws, its waters grey and ominous. To the south was the River Reik,

flowing from Altdorf and deep within the Empire, its tributaries stretching far

beyond: to the Black Mountains, Sudenland, Averland, Stirland, the World’s Edge

Mountains, and as far north as Kislev. And ahead lay Marienburg itself, which was

all that was really visible because of its proximity and its lights: its islands and its

bridges, its houses and its shops, its stables and its taverns, its markets and its

warehouses, its barracks and its temples, its rivers and its ships.

The bridge was narrower than Konrad had expected, its sides marked by low

parapets. The wind was fierce at this height, blowing icy gusts, and he was glad that

it was not far to the other side.

He was ahead of Wolf as they began to cross the stone span, and he became

aware of two riders approaching from the opposite side. He paid little attention at

first, trying not to think how close he was to the edge and how far down it was to the

river below.

The first rider was short and squat, with a thick red beard: a dwarf. The other was

a human, hooded within his black robes, his beard long and greying.

Konrad slowed his horse and edged it to one side, allowing the other riders plenty

of room to pass by. That was when he first took a proper look at the dwarf—and

recognized him.

89

At the same time he heard Wolf’s angry shout of recognition: “Litzenreich!”

Wolf drew his sword and urged his mount towards Litzenreich, but Ustnar blocked

him off with his own horse. A double-headed fighting axe had been slung over the

dwarf’s shoulder, and already the weapon was in his hand. Wolf was clad in his

armour, but without his helmet, while Ustnar wore thick furs as protection from the

cold.

“Out of my way, runt!” snarled Wolf. “Or you die first!”

“Don’t even try!” growled Ustnar, swinging his axe in an arc to keep Wolf at bay.

“What seems to be the problem?” asked Litzenreich.

“Problem? Problem!” yelled Wolf, his sword pointing at the wizard. “You’re the

problem, you bastard! But you won’t be for long!”

“Wolf!” warned Konrad, urging his horse forward. “He’s a wizard…”

With a single bolt of lightning, Litzenreich could hurl Wolf’s burning body over

the side of the bridge—and probably Konrad’s own blazing corpse, too.

“I know,” hissed Wolf. “That’s one of the reasons he must die!” He thrust his

sword towards Ustnar. “Back!”

The dwarf caught the black blade on the handle of his axe, and they glared at one

another. Neither of them had attempted to breach the other’s defence, not yet, but

within a few seconds the real fighting would begin.

A blast of cold wind blew through Konrad’s hair, and he glanced down, seeing

the shadow of a ship passing through the narrow channel beneath the bridge. The last

rays of the sun were reflected from the surface of the river, which seemed even

further down than it had done.

He had no quarrel with Litzenreich and Ustnar, but Wolf was his comrade, and if

it came to combat then Konrad would fight side by side with Wolf. Under normal

circumstances, even such a ferocious warrior as Ustnar would stand little chance

against Wolf. But these were hardly normal circumstances, and a sorcerer was the

ideal ally in any battle.

“Back!” repeated Wolf.

This time his sword stroke was faster, more forceful, and Ustnar parried with

equal alacrity and strength.

“No!” said Ustnar. “You get back! Out of our way!” And he swung his axe,

quicker, harder, closer.

Konrad looked at Litzenreich. “Can’t we all pass by in peace?”

“No!” retorted Wolf, as his black blade stabbed forward again. By now he was

hardly holding back.

“Peace?” said Litzenreich. “He—that fellow—does not know the word.”

“Fellow! I’m not surprised you’ve forgotten my name. You thought I was dead,

didn’t you? You left me to die. But now I’m here to kill you. Wolf! That’s who I am.

You won’t have time to forget, because it’s the last thing you’ll ever know!”

Another swordstroke, another axesweep.

“I do not understand why you are complaining,” said Litzenreich. “You did not

die. If you had done, you would not now be here.”

90

Wolf was in no mood for a discussion. He feinted to the left, drew back as Ustnar

moved that way to counter the stroke, then leaned forward in his stirrups, jabbing his

sword forward. Ustnar dodged aside in time, the blade missed, and it was Wolf’s turn

to take evasive action as the dwarf axe sliced towards him.

The two antagonists and their horses occupied most of the width of the bridge,

and Konrad could do nothing but watch as the conflict escalated. Litzenreich held his

mount’s reins with his left hand, and Konrad expected him to use his right at any

moment, a thunderbolt flashing from his outstretched fingers towards Wolf. But it

seemed that the wizard was content to be a spectator. Then Konrad caught a glimpse

of his right hand, or where his right hand should have been: it was missing. Bound

with a piece of leather, the sorcerer’s arm ended at the wrist.

It was Litzenreich who had caused Gaxar to lose his right paw, although Konrad

did not know the circumstances. Then when Litzenreich had been the grey seer’s

prisoner beneath Altdorf, his limbs had been nailed to the ground, and he had ordered

Konrad to pull his right hand free so that he could cast spells against the attacking

pygmy troglodytes. But magicians were unable to heal their own wounds, and it

seemed Litzenreich’s mutilated hand had not recovered from being ripped loose from

the rock. Gaxar was dead, yet he had gained revenge for his own amputation.

When Konrad had been studying the High Bridge earlier, he had observed a

number of figures crossing the stone span. Now he realized that he and Wolf had

passed no one descending the steep spiral road while they had been ascending. The

only others they had encountered anywhere on the bridge had been Litzenreich and

Ustnar. Four riders, five horses, there was still no one else attempting to cross—and

that did not seem right to Konrad. The imminent darkness should not have prevented

other travellers from crossing from south to north.

Wolf and Ustnar fought in earnest, matching each other blow for blow.

Litzenreich appeared to be paying little attention to the combat. He had lowered his

hood and his head was tilted to one side, as if listening, and he slowly looked around

in the direction from which he and Ustnar had come. The far end of the bridge was

embedded in the steep rock face, and the dark granite to either side of the end pillars

had been hollowed out to form a passage leading directly onto the bridge.

A dim shape glimmered on the horizon. Morrslieb, the lesser moon which was so

important to Chaos cultists, was on the ascendant.

And suddenly there were others on the bridge: menacing figures racing towards

the centre…

“Skaven!” yelled Konrad, releasing the packhorse and drawing his own sword.

He glanced back over his shoulder, seeing a second dark band of ratbeasts

swarming from the tower at the other end of the bridge. The three humans and the

dwarf were under attack from both sides, trapped in the middle by their savage

ambushers.

Konrad claimed the first victim, as the rampaging creature leading the charge fell

to his blade. He avoided the wild swordsweep and hacked at its furry throat, slicing it

open, and a spray of blood cascaded from the wound. A second inhuman attacked, its

sword thrusting up at Konrad’s waist. He turned the stroke aside with his own

weapon, then stabbed the beast between its snarling jaws as its momentum carried it

up against Konrad’s horse.

91

Wolf and Ustnar had disengaged and turned away, the dwarf to defend

Litzenreich, the mercenary to join Konrad, their blades slashing and slicing into the

mutated rats who rushed at them.

Konrad saw flashes of bright light behind him, smelled the stench of roasting

flesh, and he knew that Litzenreich was using his thaumaturgical talents against their

common foes.

Konrad and Wolf were above the feral horde, but Konrad preferred to fight on

foot under such conditions. Trapped on the bridge, with no room to manoeuvre, he

was more of a target on horseback and could easily have been dragged down. But

before he could dismount, his horse was hacked away beneath him, its legs chopped

clean through. He threw himself aside, and Wolf did the same. They fought side by

side, sword by sword.

Skaven seldom fought blade against blade. Their tactics were more likely to be of

ambush, to attack with overwhelming strength. They dwelled underground, and they

preferred to fight in fetid tunnels where their eyesight gave them an advantage in the

dark.

Now they had chosen combat in the open, on the High Bridge; but every other

factor was in their favour—the ambush, their numerical superiority, the approaching

night.

They were armed with jagged swords and curved blades mounted on long poles,

and Konrad recognized the emblem which they carried on their shields and banners

and which was branded onto their flesh: a circle with a vertical line down the middle,

and two more lines from the centre directed down towards the edge of the circle. It

was the clan mark of the skaven he had fought beneath Middenheim, the ones

commanded by Gaxar…

But these skaven seemed to have no commander. They were tough, they were

strong, they were wild—too wild. In battle, more was required than strength; there

had to be brains as well as muscle. The predators were so crazed with blood lust that

their numerical superiority counted for nothing; they all wanted to attack at once, and

so inevitably obstructed each other. Many of the berserker rats were wounded by the

frantic sword strokes of their own verminous breed. They growled and spat, hurling

themselves forward without regard to their own fate.

At first Konrad and Wolf were protected by the bodies of their dead horses, and

soon their defensive ramparts were strengthened by the increasing pile of skaven

corpses.

Konrad kept looking for Silver Eye. If he were here, that would explain the

sudden attack—Gaxar’s bodyguard was taking revenge for the death of his master.

But Konrad saw no sign of that particular skaven.

Sword in one hand, dagger in the other, he fought as he had not done for a long

time. The night air was filled with the screams of the assault force, and with his own

and Wolf’s answering battle cries. The rat-things screamed as they attacked, and they

screamed as they died. The stones of the bridge became awash with skaven blood,

which glistened in Morrslieb’s spectral light.

Konrad thrust and swung with his sword, slaying with ruthless efficiency. He

severed limbs and cut off heads, ripped out entrails and crushed bones. He used his

feet and his knife, kicking at the wounded, stabbing at those who had not been

92

sufficiently damaged to become immobile. Even with legs that were but stumps, with

arms that ended at the elbow, they could still crawl, they could still bite. While they

could move they were lethal.

Suddenly everything became still. There was no silence, because many of the

ugly brutes screamed as the blood spilled from their fatal wounds and they gasped for

their final breath of air.

“Just like old times,” Wolf said to Konrad, as he surveyed the carnage and wiped

blood from his face with his gauntlet.

During the onslaught, it had seemed that there was a whole legion of inhumans

charging from that end of the bridge; but there could have been no more than a score

of bodies scattered around them.

Then there was another yell, and one last demented skaven came bounding over

the mound of the dead, launching itself towards Konrad and Wolf. They both caught

the creature at once, impaling it upon their weapons, one black blade and one

Imperial guard sword. The mutated rodent staggered to one side, twitching,

screeching.

Wolf pulled his sword free from the dying brute, but Konrad felt his weapon

being twisted out of his hand. He tried to retain his grip, but his hand was too

slippery with blood.

The final enemy staggered to the side of the bridge, vainly trying to tear Konrad’s

sword out of its chest; but it only succeeded in severing its own clawed fingers on the

blade’s edge. Colliding with the low parapet, it swayed and fell backwards. It

tumbled down, down, its screech of pain and of death diminishing as it dropped

towards the Reik far below.

“You all right?” asked Wolf.

“I think so.” Konrad was covered in blood, sticky and slimy, but not much of it

seemed to be his own.

They turned to face Litzenreich and Ustnar, both of whom had also survived.

Their horses were slain, and a pile of hideous carcasses lay around them, some

bloodied and some blackened. The wizard and the dwarf looked at Konrad and Wolf.

“A truce,” suggested Konrad, and he was speaking to Wolf as well as Litzenreich.

Ustnar was leaning upon his dripping axe; he would do whatever the wizard

commanded.

“Very well,” agreed Litzenreich. “We seem to have a common enemy, which is a

good basis for negotiation.”

“This isn’t over, Litzenreich,” said Wolf, but he nodded his agreement. Then he

added to Konrad: “But at the moment, the most important thing is to get a drink…”

He started to hand his sword over for the blade to be cleaned, then remembered

that Konrad’s five years of service had elapsed. Wolf wiped his weapon on his

packhorse’s blanket, and unloaded what he needed from the dead animal. One of the

skaven was still twitching, and he kicked it a couple of times until it became still.

“If they had had any sense,” he said, “they’d have waited till we killed each

other.”

Litzenreich said something to Ustnar, who began to examine the skaven corpses.

Having lost his sword, Konrad studied the blades which had been carried by their

93

insane attackers. But there was a difference between taking an Imperial guard sword

which had been used by a Chaos cultist and a weapon which had always belonged to

one of the creatures of the damned. He let the benighted blades lie where they had

fallen.

These creatures must have been the survivors from the assault on their lair

beneath Middenheim. The City of the White Wolf lay hundreds of miles away, yet it

would be linked to Marienburg by one of the subterranean passages which connected

all the centres of skaven habitation. Wherever humans dwelled, there was also likely

to be an infestation of skaven.

But why had this clan come to the Wasteland? Konrad guessed there must be one

reason—to try and destroy him. Litzenreich had also been instrumental in

annihilating the skaven nest deep below Altdorf. The rat beasts also wanted revenge

against the sorcerer.

“How do you know Litzenreich?” Konrad asked.

“From Middenheim. It was—” Wolf stopped. “You know him? Yes, because you

knew he was a magician.”

Konrad nodded. “We’ve met.”

Wolf waited for more explanation. None was forthcoming, and so he continued:

“When I arrived in Ferlangen and found you, I’d just come from Middenheim. I was

almost killed there because of Litzenreich.”

Wolf and Litzenreich…

Yet another link in the web which held Konrad ensnared, its strands becoming

ever tighter, like a noose around his throat.

94

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Wolf and Ustnar led the way off the bridge, sword and axe at the ready in case of

another barbaric assault. They took the northern exit, past the stone pillars and

through the passageway carved out of the solid rock, heading for the heart of

Marienburg.

The tollkeeper at the entrance to the bridge lay dead, what was left of him; the

troops in the guardhouse were also bloody corpses, mutilated by the skaven.

The same must have happened to the men on the other side of the bridge after

Konrad and Wolf had begun their ascent.

As the four made their way cautiously down the winding lane from High Bridge,

Mannslieb rose in the east, dissolving the darkest shadows where more enemies

might have lurked, and illuminating their route to the city. Down below were the

lights of houses, voices could be heard, and a few dim shapes were visible in the

streets. Nobody was yet aware of what had happened a hundred yards further back,

high above their heads.

And no one might ever know. By dawn tomorrow, the bridge would most likely

be devoid of dead vermin. Their corpses would have vanished during the night,

spirited away by the skaven of Marienburg who had come to collect their kin. All that

would remain were the bodies of the guards, mysteriously slain, and the five

butchered horses.

Reaching the river near where a slipway angled down into the cold dark waters of

the Reik, Konrad waded straight in. He was still holding his dagger in his right hand,

and he immersed himself completely to wash away the skaven gore which coated his

flesh and his clothes, and to bathe his own wounds. Wolf had been wearing his black

armour during the battle, and so the blood and bones and brains of the beasts he had

slain would have to be wiped off the metal before it dried to a stinking crust. He bent

down at the water’s edge, wiping his face clean.

If anything, Ustnar was even more contaminated than Konrad. His beard and hair

were matted with skaven slime. Despite this, he was very reluctant to soak himself.

He stood watching as Konrad stripped off his clothes, until finally his own hatred of

water became secondary to his loathing of the putrid remains which were splattered

across him. He tugged off his outer furs, then slowly walked into the river and

ducked his head beneath the surface. He kept hold of his battle axe. Konrad and the

dwarf stood two yards apart, warily watching each other, but neither of them spoke.

Only Litzenreich had not been touched by the alien blood, and he waited at the

top of the slipway. He held his arms out in front of himself, as if studying them,

comparing his left hand with where his right should have been.

No matter how much Konrad rubbed at himself and what he wore, he could not

remove the fetid stench of rodent death. His body needed to soak in a hot bath and his

95

clothes would have to be destroyed. He climbed up from the river and onto the

quayside, wringing out his shirt and then putting it back on. As he did so he shivered,

and behind him he heard Ustnar sneeze. He was glad his hair was not as long as the

dwarf’s, and that his beard had not yet grown to its previous thickness.

“We must find somewhere to stay for the night,” Wolf said to him. “Where you

can get dry and warm, and where I can get clean.”

“We shall join you,” Litzenreich announced.

“Will you?” said Wolf.

“There are various matters we must discuss.”

“I’m not discussing anything with you, you treacherous bastard. Get out of my

sight before I—” Wolf gripped the hilt of his sword, and Ustnar hurried up the

slipway to step between him and Litzenreich.

“We ought to continue our truce,” said Litzenreich. “We have much in common.

We were on that bridge at exactly the same time, yet going in opposite directions,

when those creatures attacked us. For us to have met precisely there and then, was

that coincidence?”

“Yes!”

Wolf sensed Konrad watching him, and he shrugged.

Coincidence, chance, luck: Wolf did not believe in any of them.

“All right,” he conceded, “we’ll talk.”

And so they did.

Marienburg’s very existence depended upon the sea and the river which flowed

into the ocean, and it was a city of water as well as of land. Its bridges were more

than merely links between the different districts; they were as much a part of the city

as any of its roads. They happened to be built above the water instead of upon land,

but the widest of them were like any other street in any part of the Empire; they were

lined with houses, shops, taverns.

The four reluctant allies found rooms in one such tavern, the Eight Bells, which

was in the centre of one of the bridges across the Tussenkanal, one of the Reik’s

many tributaries. Konrad’s first request was for a hot tub, his second for a change of

clothes. The garments had probably come from a guest who had been unable to settle

his bill, but they were a lot cleaner than the ones Konrad discarded.

Wolf had requested that their evening meal was served in his room, so that his

conversation with Litzenreich could not be overheard. It was too late to hide the fact

that they were together. Ustnar said hardly anything all evening, and Litzenreich

spoke as though he did not exist. The dwarf sat with his axe by his side, ready to

dismember Wolf should he make a move against the wizard. Wolf’s black sword belt

was slung over the back of the chair where he sat.

Konrad was equally sparing with his words. He had little to say, but there was

much to be learned by listening. While they ate, he had great difficulty keeping his

eyes open. This was the first time he had been indoors for weeks, and the first time

he had been warm during that period. The heat from the fire was making him

lethargic, but even before the battle with the rat beasts he was exhausted from the

long journey to Marienburg, and he would have preferred sleeping to eating.

96

“I was crossing the bridge to take a boat to Altdorf,” explained Litzenreich. “And

you?”

Wolf took his time before answering. It seemed that he did not trust what the

wizard had told him, which Konrad could well understand, and so he was reluctant to

reveal his own intentions. He chewed slowly upon a piece of mutton, and then

inspected a lump of gristle he had extracted from his mouth, while deciding his reply.

“We had only just arrived in Marienburg, and we were also planning to head for

Altdorf,” he said, truthfully.

“I had been here for some while, but decided it was time to return to the capital.”

“Return?”

“I was a guest of the Altdorf army. It is a long story, but your friend…”

Litzenreich gestured with his fork towards Konrad.

“Konrad,” said Wolf.

“Yes, he knows some of it.” The sorcerer rubbed at the stump of his right arm. “I

kept heading downriver, although not in the river. I finally reached Marienburg,

which I thought would suit my purposes most admirably. Being a port, one can find

almost every kind of commodity if one knows where to look and who to ask. And if

one can pay the price. You know the kind of substance to which I am referring, of

course?”

“Warpstone.” Wolf spat out the word, and he glanced from Litzenreich to

Konrad, realizing that the enigmatic substance linked the two of them. “You know

what warpstone is?”

Konrad nodded. He knew, or he thought that he did; but he also knew that

nothing could be certain.

“Warpstone is the stuff of Chaos,” said Wolf, “and Chaos is the source of all

magic. You know that?”

Konrad nodded again, although he was unaware of when he had discovered this.

It may have been one of the things which Galea had told him, or possibly he had

gradually grown aware of it during his dealings with Litzenreich.

“Magic and Chaos and evil are one and the same,” Wolf asserted.

Litzenreich laughed, spraying food over the table, then shook his head in

disbelief.

Konrad assumed that Wolf was biased because of how he had been adversely

affected by sorcery and sorcerers throughout his life, from his brother’s treachery

right through to whatever Litzenreich had done to him. By now, Konrad no longer

believed everything that he heard from Wolf—or anyone else. It was too simplistic to

associate magic with evil. Maybe Litzenreich was correct: Chaos did not necessarily

mean evil. It was there, it was a part of the world. The effects of Chaos, whether

positive or negative, were open to interpretation.

“My life was saved by magic,” said Konrad.

“By science,” Litzenreich said.

But Konrad was not referring to the way he had been extracted from the bronze

armour. He held out his right arm.

“That elf,” he said to Wolf. “Remember?”

97

Litzenreich glanced at Konrad’s right arm, then at his own. “You were healed by

an elf?” he asked, and Konrad nodded. “A pity I could not find one to help me. I

thought elven magic only worked on elves, but that proves how the art is always

advancing. And that is why I have to get back to Altdorf. I need more warp-stone to

continue my research. There is very little in Marienburg.”

“And you think we’re going to help you?” said Wolf.

“I believe we are going to help each other, that our interests are the same. Why do

you wish to go to Altdorf?”

Wolf looked at Konrad, and he told Litzenreich: “We weren’t doing much, so we

thought we’d rescue the Emperor and save the Empire. Konrad tells me that the

skaven are up to some kind of mischief, that there’s a replica of Karl-Franz waiting to

step into his shoes.”

“That is correct. It was constructed by Gaxar.”

“Gaxar!”

“Yes, but he is dead now. He—er—Konrad, he killed him in the catacombs of

Altdorf when I escaped.” He glanced at his right arm. “Or most of me.”

Konrad was watching Wolf, whose teeth were bared in rage, whose eyes were

wide in anger, whose fists were clenched in fury, whose muscles were tensed in

wrath.

Litzenreich had taken Konrad to Middenheim when he was trapped within the

bronze armour; and deep below Middenheim was where Konrad had first

encountered Gaxar in his skaven form. But long before that, it was Middenheim

where Litzenreich had betrayed Wolf, leaving him to die. Evidently, this treachery

had something to do with Gaxar. Was it the grey seer who had almost slain him?

Wolf and Gaxar…

It seemed that nothing Konrad had ever done was of his own volition, he had merely

been playing out the role assigned to him. No matter what he did, he was always

restricted to the confines of the intricate web whose strands linked everyone he had

ever known.

And now he sat and watched and listened while Wolf and Litzenreich planned the

next part of his life; but first the sorcerer told Wolf of recent events in Middenheim

and Altdorf.

“You’ve been busy, Konrad,” said Wolf. “I always thought I’d encounter Gaxar

again and settle my score with him, but it appears you’ve saved me the trouble.” He

looked at Litzenreich, then continued, “But with Gaxar dead, what about the

impostor he created? Wouldn’t that also have died?”

“Not necessarily,” answered Litzenreich. “Gaxar must have reanimated a corpse,

transforming it into a likeness of the Emperor. The doppelganger was already one of

the undead, and so how could it die?”

“But without the skaven’s wizardry to keep it whole, it would have rotted away.”

“The replica still exists, I am sure. Although its creation was the most difficult

part, it can still fulfil its function. There are many other grey seers who can see to

that. Even without Gaxar, the skaven can carry out their plan to replace the

Emperor.”

98

This was what Konrad had previously surmised, but he knew that Litzenreich did

not care about the Emperor. As the wizard had already admitted, it was warpstone

that he wanted. There were skaven in Altdorf, and that meant there was warpstone

there. But he had to convince Wolf that the skaven were still a danger to Karl-Franz,

and that only he could counter the threat.

Perhaps it was even true, or some of it.

Litzenreich had been a skaven prisoner beneath Altdorf, and he had no wish to be

captured again. He must have believed that his return to the capital would be less

dangerous if he were aided by Wolf and Konrad, and if he aided them.

“Our interests are the same?” said Wolf, repeating Litzenreich’s earlier words.

“Yes.”

Wolf shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Yes,” Litzenreich insisted.

“Then we’ll head for Altdorf together.”

For a moment, Konrad wondered if Litzenreich had persuaded Wolf by using his

powers of mesmerism. The two were sitting opposite, and the wizard had been

staring directly at Wolf while they conversed. But then Wolf glanced at Konrad, and

from his expression Konrad knew that he would still like to slit Litzenreich’s throat.

“Good,” said Litzenreich, raising his wine glass in a toast.

Wolf and Konrad lifted their tankards. Ustnar gazed out of the window to the

darkened city, and he belched.

“When do we leave?” asked the sorcerer.

“As soon as our army is ready.”

“Our army?”

“Ustnar can be handy with his axe,” said Wolf, “and you have a few tricks up

your sleeve, but it will take more than that to get us into the capital. We’re going to

invade Altdorf with an army of mercenaries.”

“Do you think that is wise?”

“I don’t know, but it’s the best chance we’ve got.”

“If you march an army on Altdorf, they will know that we are coming.”

“They’ll know as soon as I start recruiting. And we’ll be going by river, not

marching.”

“I see,” said Litzenreich, nodding his head. He took a sip of wine, then wiped his

mouth with the back of his left hand. There was a vivid scar in the centre of his palm,

where it had been nailed to the ground. “A diversion? I also considered it would be

best if we four went alone. That is what we do, while your army engages the city

troops?”

“Yes.”

“Will it not take some considerable time to recruit these mercenaries?”

“Maybe.”

“I have a better idea.”

Wolf sighed. “What?”

“Instead of hiring an army and then hiring boats to transport them, why not

simply enlist a pirate ship or two? There are Imperial spies in Marienburg who will

soon discover what has happened and report to the capital. But to make sure that they

99

do hear about the proposed attack, I am sure the brigands could be persuaded to burn

a few Reik villages on the voyage upstream.”

Wolf stared at Litzenreich. It was clear that he was impressed with the wizard’s

strategy, and it was equally apparent that he did not want to show how impressed.

“Maybe,” he said, and he nodded. “We could leave the vessels long before

Altdorf, because the authorities won’t want the ships to get anywhere near the city.

They’ll probably blockade the river, so the pirates will never be able to attack, and

send out troops to destroy them. That in itself should provide enough of a diversion

for us to get into the capital.”

“Excellent,” said Litzenreich. “We will save the Emperor from the skaven, and

for my services I will claim whatever warpstone can be found.”

They would be up against far more than the skaven, thought Konrad, but that

would probably make little difference to Litzenreich. The only thing that had ever

interested him was warpstone, and the mutated rodents were the most likely source of

the material. This was why he had planned to return to the Imperial capital even

before he encountered Wolf and Konrad.

“Despite my talents,” added Litzenreich, as he glanced from Wolf to Konrad to

Ustnar, “I always like to have the backing of skilled fighters with ready blades.”

“You’ll need a new sword, Konrad,” said Wolf.

“How about a bow and arrow?” said Konrad.

“Peasant weapon,” said Wolf, with a slight smile.

It was an arrow fired by Konrad which had saved Wolf from being sacrificed by a

goblin shaman. The shaman had been the first to die when Konrad had entered the

subterranean temple where Wolf was held a helpless hostage.

“You’ve never had a sword of your own, have you?” Wolf continued. “It’s time

you did.” He touched the hilt of his black sword—and Ustnar reached for the handle

of his axe.

“Magnin the steelsmith has a good reputation,” added Wolf, ignoring Ustnar.

“We could pay him a visit after we have concluded our business in Altdorf.”

“If you want a sword,” said Litzenreich, “perhaps I can help.”

“You can make a magic sword?” sneered Wolf.

“Ustnar knows the best swordsmith in Marienburg,” said Litzenreich, referring to

the dwarf for the first time. “What’s his name?”

“Barra,” grunted Ustnar.

“He made Ustnar’s new axe. Would you recommend his craftsmanship?”

“Yes, boss.”

“If you want a sword, Barra is the one to make it.”

“Can I look at the axe?” asked Wolf, holding out his hand.

“You can look,” said Ustnar, as he demonstrated by glancing towards the double-

bladed weapon. “But the only way you can touch is with it buried in your skull.”

Wolf smiled. “One of these days, Ustnar, we’ll resume where we were

interrupted today.” He turned to Konrad. “You want a sword?”

Konrad shrugged. “I haven’t got a sword so I need one, but I don’t know if I want

my own. When it comes to combat, it’s the man who matters, not the weapon.”

100

“It’s the man and the weapon. While I find some pirates who would like to try

their hand looting Altdorf, you can have a sword made. I’m sure Ustnar will be only

too delighted to introduce you to Barra.”

Konrad and Ustnar looked at each other.

“Delighted,” muttered Ustnar.

* * *

“Litzenreich can be useful,” said Wolf, once the wizard and the dwarf had gone.

“He thinks that about us,” said Konrad.

“As long as he believes that about us, and we believe the same about him, then

everything should work out. I’d rather have Litzenreich with us, because that way I

know exactly where the bastard is.”

“Are we going to do what you said? Find a gang of pirates to attack Altdorf?”

“Yes.”

“How are you going to persuade them?”

“With promises of untold wealth—because Altdorf is the richest city in the

Empire, in the Old World—and with lies. I’ll convince them that the capital is a

succulent fruit, ripe for the picking, and that I have the keys to the orchard.” He

grinned. “I read that in a book once, although I think it was about some harem in

Araby.”

“Will they believe you?”

“I don’t know, but that’s my problem. You think about what type of sword you

want. Once you have your own blade, handcrafted to your own specifications, you

will never want to use another sword.”

That was what concerned Konrad, and what he began thinking of when he went

into his own room. Over the years he had lost so many blades; the one snatched from

his grasp today was simply the latest in a long line. They had been broken in combat,

or they had decayed through contact with venomous enemy blood.

A sword was a sword, a killing implement. Some were better than others, but he

had learned how to handle all types. He had been taught by experts, frontier

mercenaries whom Wolf had appointed as his tutors, and he had taught himself.

Although he felt exhausted, sleep refused to come. He was too busy considering

the events of the last hours, and what was to happen between now and their arrival in

Altdorf—and after.

They had been attacked by a swarm of skaven, which meant that their enemies

already knew they were in Marienburg. Cities always made Konrad nervous, and he

felt vulnerable. The tiny room in the Eight Bells was like a trap. In spite of the

draught, he lay near the open window in the hope that he could leap down into the

river below if the tavern were assaulted, and he kept his dagger in his hand.

Konrad thought about the scheme to attack Altdorf. It was meant as a diversion,

so that the four of them could enter the city more easily But what if the pirates

succeeded in smashing through the city’s defences? What if the corrupted Imperial

guard and all the other armies of the damned that secretly dwelled in Altdorf joined

101

the invaders to burn and loot and destroy the capital? Was that not exactly what the

legions of Chaos wanted to happen?

All that was left of the Imperial capital would be decay and ruins, the ideal

environment for the skaven. No longer would the ratbeasts inhabit labyrinthine lairs

beneath the city, because the whole of Altdorf would have become theirs.

102

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Ustnar! How’s the axe?”

“Fine.”

From Ustnar, that was a real compliment, probably the closest that he would ever

come to a show of enthusiasm. His expression, however, remained as impassive as

ever.

Barra was another dwarf, but his thick hair and bushy beard were almost white.

He looked almost as wide as he was tall, his torso and limbs rippling with muscle.

Despite the season, he was stripped to the waist, wearing only a kilt and sandals. He

was covered in sweat and must have stepped outside to cool down.

Beyond the door against which Barra stood, Konrad glimpsed an incandescent

glow and could feel searing waves of heat blasting from the furnace.

It was the day after Wolf and Litzenreich had agreed to join forces. Ustnar led

Konrad through the city streets, across many of the bridges of Marienburg, and he did

not say a word. Konrad had saved him from the skaven below Altdorf, but that

seemed to count for nothing, certainly not for an acknowledgement. The dwarf must

have believed that they were now even. He had liberated Konrad from a similar

situation beneath Middenheim, although he had gone there to rescue his brother from

the skaven. But Varsung was already dead, and so Ustnar and the two dwarfs with

him had saved Konrad. The other dwarfs, Hjornur and Joukelm, were now also dead.

The armoury stood almost alone in a run-down area of the city, and all the nearby

buildings were either boarded up or burned out. The forge itself must once have been

derelict, but much of it had been mended with new planks of wood. Repairs were still

in progress, and another dwarf was on the roof, replacing some broken slates. He

looked young, but was probably twice Konrad’s age. There was a raven sitting on his

shoulder, as if supervising the work.

“Konrad wants a sword,” said Ustnar, nodding to Konrad.

Barra said something in the dwarf tongue, speaking very rapidly. Ustnar replied

with equal speed, gesturing at Konrad. Although he understood some of the

language, Konrad could make nothing of their exchange, although it was evident that

Barra was angry.

Barra studied Konrad for a while, then slowly nodded. “Can you pay?” he asked,

in Old Worlder.

Konrad patted his pocket, and the gold crowns that Wolf had given him jingled

together.

“Barra’s favourite sound.”

“A special sword,” said Ustnar.

“A good sword,” said Konrad.

103

“Barra only makes good swords. Everything Barra makes is the best.” He

gestured to the curved bars of metal lined along a pole by the door; they were what

he must have been producing that morning. “Even horseshoes.”

Having completed his task, Ustnar turned and walked away. Konrad and Barra

watched him leave the courtyard.

“Barra would rather make a weapon than anything else.” He ran his hand over the

row of horseshoes, clanging them against one another. “But Barra has to make a

living.”

“I want—”

Barra held up his hand and Konrad became silent.

“Barra knows what you want. Barra knows better than you what you want. Barra

will make what Barra wants, which is what you want.”

“But—”

Another silencing gesture, and Konrad obliged.

“What do you know about swords?”

“I know how to use them.”

“You pull your sword from its scabbard, you fight, you kill, you put your sword

back in its scabbard. What else do you know?”

Konrad was silent voluntarily, and he shrugged.

“Barra knows everything about swords. Barra knows what nobody else knows.

And what Barra doesn’t know, nobody else knows.”

“I know how a good sword feels,” said Konrad, holding out his right hand,

imagining that he was gripping a sword hilt. It was the same with a horse, he

supposed. He could handle any kind of mount, and he could soon tell which was the

best sort of animal to ride, but he could not explain how he knew. There was a bond

between rider and horse, just as there was a union between a swordsman and his

blade.

“But Barra knows how to make a good sword, a great sword. And Barra will

make one for you, aye?”

“Yes,” agreed Konrad.

Then Barra added: “If Barra thinks you’re good enough for one of Barra’s

swords—”

“What?”

“Lodnar!” Barra shouted up to the dwarf on the roof. “Two swords!”

“What?” Konrad repeated. “I’m going to have to prove myself before you’ll

make me a sword?”

“Aye. Ustnar brought you here, which counts for something. But you have to

show you are worthy of Barra’s art.”

“And the horses who will have those nailed to their hooves,” said Konrad,

gesturing to the horseshoes, “are they all worthy of your art?”

“That is Barra’s craft,” said Barra. “Blades are Barra’s art.”

Although he felt annoyed with Barra, Konrad was also amused by the idea of

having to prove himself. He watched as the young dwarf climbed down the ladder.

When he reached the ground, the raven flew from his shoulder and returned to the

roof directly above the door. Lodnar was slimmer than Barra, his beard dark red. He

104

went inside the armoury. Haifa minute later he returned holding two blades which he

gave to Barra, who then presented one to Konrad.

It was an excellent sword, well balanced, properly weighted, with good keen

edges which were parallel almost to the tip, which was as sharp at the cutting edges.

Its handle was bound with soft leather, and Konrad went through a few swift

manoeuvres with the blade—more for Barra’s benefit than to test the sword. The

weapon was one he would have been happy to own and use in combat. He was

tempted to ask for a price. There seemed no need to have a sword specially forged

when this one was more than suitable.

“Very fancy,” commented Barra, once Konrad had completed his imaginary duel.

“You move like a warrior, and from your scars you must have been in a few battles.

But how well can you fight? Try a few passes.” He raised the sword in his right hand.

“You aren’t worried that I might kill you?”

“You kill Barra, and Barra can’t make you a sword.”

“But if I do kill you, does that mean I would have been a good enough

swordsman for you to make me a blade if you were still alive?”

Barra laughed and suddenly thrust his sword at Konrad’s belly. If Konrad had not

blocked the blade and turned it aside, he would have had six inches of steel in his

guts. Barra could have pulled back before striking—but would he have done?

They fought, and Konrad hardly held back at all. It was more difficult fighting an

opponent whose blade came at a different angle than one who was the same height.

Barra was an expert swordsman, which was rare for a dwarf; axes were their chosen

weapon. His technique was not very stylish, and he tended to swing the blade as if it

were indeed an axe, but his anticipation and reflexes were very fast. It seemed that he

was doing his best to injure Konrad, and that he did not care too much whether it was

a fatal wound.

To unnerve the dwarf, Konrad suddenly switched his blade to his left hand and

continued fighting. He maintained his guard and did not go on the offensive, and

after half a minute resumed fighting with his right hand. He feinted to the left, drew

back swiftly as Barra’s sword came chopping down at his arm, and made as if to pass

his sword back to his left hand. Barra quickly moved to counter the next stroke, but

then Konrad sprang forward, his blade outstretched and still in his right hand. He

leaned back a moment later, and there was a red cross upon Barra’s chest, two

intersecting lines of blood marking where his heart lay.

Barra stepped away, and he gazed down at the blood which mingled with his

sweating flesh. He lowered his sword.

“I’m not surprised you have to make your living with horseshoes,” said Konrad.

“How many customers do you kill?”

“Not many,” said Barra, and he smiled.

“But if you made Ustnar prove himself, I’m amazed that you’re still alive.”

“Sometimes Barra is surprised Barra is alive.” His smile became a grin, and he

handed his blade to Lodnar. “Barra will make your sword, Konrad. But you tell no

one, ever, who made your blade. Understand?” His expression had become serious

once more.

105

Konrad nodded, realizing this must have been why Barra and Ustnar had argued:

because Konrad knew who had made the dwarf’s axe. Barra was not for hire; he

chose those for whom he would make his weapons.

“Give Lodnar some money” Barra turned and walked into the armoury.

Reluctantly, Konrad returned the sword, and he stuck his hand into his pocket.

“How much?”

Wolf had given him a handful of crowns, finally admitting where they had come

from. It seemed that the ancient dwarf temple had not been entirely devoid of

treasure. The huge lens through which light had been directed from the mountain into

the depths below had been made from semi-precious stone. Although split and

fragmented by Anvila’s gunpowder, it had been worth a considerable amount.

“Ten crowns,” Lodnar replied. “That’s to make sure you’re serious. Bring some

more tomorrow.”

Konrad counted ten gold coins into the dwarf’s palm. Lodnar pocketed the money

and then began to ascend the ladder. The raven flew down onto his shoulder as he

climbed.

“Will it be ready tomorrow?” asked Konrad. Lodnar glanced down at him. “Barra

was right. You don’t know much about swords.”

When Konrad returned early the following morning, he found Ustnar standing in the

courtyard with Lodnar. Lodnar was doing all the talking. The raven was up on the

roof above the door, gazing down like a living emblem. And Litzenreich was in the

forge with Barra. Konrad began to sweat as soon as he stepped into the heat, but the

wizard seemed as comfortable as the dwarf.

“We were discussing your sword,” said Litzenreich.

“What’s it got to do with you?” Konrad asked. If he was not allowed to tell Barra

the kind of weapon he wanted, why should the sorcerer have any influence on the

blade?

“If you are to be with me,” said Litzenreich, “you must have the best sword there

is. We are going into Altdorf, and you cannot even begin to guess the powers

possessed by those we will be up against. You will need all the help you can get. You

need a special sword.”

That was what Ustnar had told Barra the previous day, and now Konrad realized

exactly what “special” meant.

Warpstone…

“I’m having nothing to do with that stuff!”

“It is a little late for you to worry about that now,” Litzenreich said, “do you not

think?” Not wanting Barra to overhear him, he walked out of the smithy, gesturing

for Konrad to follow.

“I don’t want any more of it corrupting me,” said Konrad. “And if Wolf knew

what you were doing—”

“Do not tell him.”

As far as Wolf was concerned warpstone was “evil”, and he had closed his mind

to all other possibilities. Galea must have explained the origin of warpstone to him,

just as she had revealed its source to Konrad. Or did she tell different stories to

106

everyone who visited her mysterious island? Konrad had not spoken to Wolf about

Galea and her revelations. It was almost as if he had absorbed her wisdom but was

unable to discuss what he had learned.

“If that sword has warpstone in it,” he said, “I won’t touch it.”

“You think I want to lose what little warpstone I have?” said Litzenreich. “I have

a small amount which came from those skaven on the bridge, and I am putting it to

its best use. I need you, Konrad. You need a sword. Your sword needs warpstone.

You must fight Chaos with Chaos, there is no other way.”

“But I am Chaos! I’m part of it. I’m so tainted by warpstone that the skaven can

smell me!”

“We are all part of Chaos, and Chaos is part of us all. Warpdust in the sword will

help balance your unwanted Chaotic tendencies. If you believe you are already

damned, what have you to lose? But this could be your salvation.”

Konrad stared at Litzenreich, knowing that he could not be trusted, but realizing

that it was a risk he must take.

“And with the warpstone,” added Litzenreich, “you will have much more chance

of succeeding with your mission in Altdorf—whatever it really is.”

The wizard evidently suspected that Konrad had other reasons for venturing up

the Reik than to save Emperor Karl-Franz, and Konrad wondered if Litzenreich had

his own secret mission to the Imperial capital.

Was he really returning there in order to find more warpstone? He was obsessed

with the substance, and Konrad well knew that the wizard would do anything to

obtain more supplies. He had already been arrested in the capital, charged with

treason for his work with warpstone. If discovered in the city, he would face a death

sentence. No one else would willingly return under such circumstances, but

warpstone fever seemed to blind Litzenreich to any danger.

Finally, Konrad nodded his agreement.

“Tell him to proceed,” said Litzenreich, and Lodnar went into the forge.

Litzenreich and Ustnar stood outside, but Konrad moved towards the door,

watching as Barra and Lodnar set to work.

Barra selected a number of strips of metal from various piles within the armoury:

one of bright steel, one of dark iron, one which seemed to be silver, one that could

have been bronze, another with a bluish tint that Konrad did not recognize. All were

approximately the same dimension.

Meanwhile, Lodnar was heating up a small metal container in the furnace. It

looked like a cast into which molten gold was poured to make into ingots. Removing

it from the flames, he waited until it had cooled down before adding various oils and

powders, mixing them up into a paste.

Barra examined the mixture, stirring it and adding a few more drops of thick

liquid. He said something to Lodnar, and Lodnar went to fetch Litzenreich.

The sorcerer followed the dwarf inside, reaching behind his beard to produce an

amulet which was on a chain around his neck. It was black, in the shape of an

inverted pyramid—and must have held the warpdust which Ustnar had collected

from the dead skaven on High Bridge.

107

Litzenreich removed the chain, opened the pyramid, and sprinkled grey powder

into the paste. He shook the amulet with his one hand, making sure that none of the

refined warpdust remained, then thoroughly stirred the mixture. He and Barra spoke

in low voices, and the dwarf picked up the first piece of metal he had selected. With a

small brush, Litzenreich daubed the warpdust mixture over the surface of the steel.

He did this four times, and each time another bar of metal was placed on top, so that

the potion formed a layer between the five different metals. Bound together with

wire, it made a bundle approximately the size of a broadsword.

Replacing his amulet, Litzenreich left the forge. He stepped past Konrad, but then

stopped and glanced down.

“What is that?” he asked.

Konrad looked down at the pattern he had idly been marking in the dirt with a

stick. He had drawn the coat of arms on the bow and arrows Elyssa had given him,

but the mailed fist had been too difficult and he had wiped that part away with his

boot.

“Two crossed arrows,” he said. “Why?”

“Two?” said Litzenreich. “Or four?”

He bent down. Where Konrad had sketched the arrow flights, Litzenreich rubbed

them away and added arrow points. The two arrows now had heads at either end.

“That’s still only two,” said Konrad, puzzled.

Litzenreich used his one index finger to draw two lines across the point where the

arrows intersected, one vertical, one horizontal. He added an arrowhead at each end.

The pattern was like the spokes of a wheel.

“The eight arrows of Chaos,” said the sorcerer. He stood up and showed Konrad

the black amulet around his neck.

And on each inverted triangular surface a tiny pattern had been etched in gold:

the same pattern which Litzenreich had drawn in the dirt.

“It is a symbol avoided by all but Dark Wizards,” said Litzenreich, then he turned

and walked away. Ustnar followed.

When Konrad glanced down, Litzenreich’s amendments to the pattern had

vanished. All that remained was what Konrad had sketched. He scuffed the design

with his boot, trying not to consider whether the elven crest really included a symbol

of Chaos, and glanced in through the door of the smithy.

Barra had placed the stack of metal sideways upon the glowing coals of the

furnace. While Lodnar pumped a pair of bellows, fanning the heat, he studied the end

of the bundle in the hottest part of the fire. This began to change colour as its

temperature increased, and the substance between the different strips started to

bubble and hiss.

Konrad moved closer, watching what the dwarfs were doing. They took no notice

of him. Although he was several yards from the forge, the heat was extremely

intense, and after a few minutes he stripped off his outer garments.

After a few minutes more, Barra used a pair of tongs to lift the metal from the

forge onto the anvil, and began pounding a heavy hammer against the glowing end of

the bar with regular strokes. He kept stopping, examining his handiwork, turning the

five strips, then hammering again until he was satisfied. The metal had grown darker

108

as it cooled, and he used pincers to untwist the loop of wire lower down the bar, then

lifted the bundle back into the fire. This time it was the area from which he had

removed the wire that was positioned in the hottest part of the furnace. When he

deemed that the metal had reached the correct temperature, he again swung it across

to the anvil and began hammering once more. He repeated the process until the

whole bar had received the same treatment. It was longer than it had been, and wider,

and the five different strips were now welded into one solid bar.

Then Barra and Lodnar went outside to cool down, each swallowing several cups

of water. Konrad followed them and wished that it was a Kislev winter.

“You don’t mind working with warpstone?” he said to Barra.

Barra roared with laughter. “Albion, where I come from, is far to the north, where

the children build castles out of warpmud. There’s so much warpstone there, it’s in

Barra’s blood.” His fat fingers touched the cross which Konrad had made above his

heart.

“And you?” Konrad asked Lodnar.

“It’s just another job to me.”

“What about Ustnar’s axe, does that have warpstone in it?”

“That’s confidential,” said Barra. “Between Ustnar and Barra. You could try

asking him.”

Konrad knew he could try, but he also knew it would be a waste of time. “To

work,” said Barra. “You coming back inside?”

Wolf had made it clear that he was conducting very delicate negotiations and that

it was best if he ventured amongst the pirate lords alone. Neither Ustnar nor

Litzenreich were Konrad’s ideal companions, and he knew no one else in

Marienburg. He could have gone for a drink in one of the city’s many taverns, and

after the intensity of the heat that would probably have been the best course of action.

But he had become oddly interested in what Barra and Lodnar were doing, and so he

said, “Yes.”

They went back within the armoury, where Lodnar placed the tip of a strong

chisel a third of the way from one end of the metal bar, and hammered most of the

way through. He did the same halfway along the remaining length, then beat both of

the ends over and down, so making the bar a third as long but three times as thick.

More of the oily warpdust paste was daubed between the different sections, and one

end was placed deep into the red-hot coals. The process of heating and hammering,

hammering and heating, resumed until the bar of metal had become one solid piece

fifteen layers thick.

So it continued all day, and the next, and Konrad handed over ten crowns, then

ten more.

Each evening Ustnar arrived at the forge, to take the warp paste and the metal in

which the raw essence of Chaos had been captured to Litzenreich for safekeeping

during the hours of darkness. Litzenreich and Ustnar stayed at a different tavern each

night, and Konrad wondered if the wizard hoped that the odour of warpdust would

attract the skaven, and he would thus be able to obtain more of the enigmatic

substance.

109

By the end of the third day there were three hundred and sixty thin layers of metal

welded together. Konrad had kept count, and each had warpdust between itself and

the next layer. Every patina was very thin, but because of the different colours they

were all perfectly visible. Barra referred to the metal bar as a “billet,” and it was

approximately the same dimensions as when it had started out as five separate strips;

the size of a sword.

“Tomorrow,” said Barra, “the real work begins. Assuming that the skaven don’t

steal the billet away during the night. Once you carry it, they’ll be drawn to that

sword like mice to cheese!”

Barra laughed, but Konrad did not. Then he realized that it would make no

difference. The ratbeasts could already smell the warpstone which flowed through his

veins. His sword would attract no more attention than his tainted flesh.

“It won’t only be skaven, of course,” Barra continued. “You will have such a

wonderful sword, everyone will want it! You’ll have to kill more people, more non-

people, just because of your blade. But because of the blade, it will be easier for you

to defeat them. You need a good sword because you have a good sword; and because

you have a good sword, you need a good sword.” He laughed again.

Although he was not sure how serious Barra was, Konrad knew what the dwarf

meant. Robbers were more likely to choose their victims from amongst the wealthy,

or those who appeared wealthy. If Konrad carried a blade which seemed to be

valuable, he would attract more attention to himself. From the preliminary work

Barra had put into the blade, Konrad already knew that it would be an exceptionally

fine piece of workmanship.

“In that case,” he said, “make it look like any other sword—until it is drawn. I

don’t want fancy quillons or an elaborate pommel, and the scabbard will be no more

than functional.”

Barra had said he would make the sword the way he wanted to, but now he

nodded in agreement. It would be several more days, however, before the sword was

ready for its quillons and pommel.

The days passed, and Konrad was there for every minute, every hour, watching as

Barra continued with his craft, his art, whilst Lodnar assisted him as he meticulously

transformed the raw metal into a perfect battle blade.

The shape of the sword slowly appeared: the bevelled edges, the gradual tapering,

the angle of the point, the groove down the centre of each surface. Twice the entire

blade was heated in the furnace and suddenly plunged into a deep trough of water,

which hissed furiously, giving off clouds of steam. This was the tempering process,

by which the metal was hardened. All the time there was more hammering, filing and

grinding, with a vast array of different hammers and instruments and tools used at the

various stages; and in between there was always polishing and oiling, oiling and

polishing. Barra never once took a single measurement. Everything was done by eye,

by touch, by years of experience, by skill, by art.

The quillons were welded in place, solid steel, dark and functional, slightly

upswept. The handle was wrapped in brown suede. It gave a good grip, being

absorbent enough to soak up blood and sweat, and it could easily be replaced when it

became saturated. The pommel was screwed into place on the end of the tang, a

110

simple brass ball. Quillons, handle, pommel, they were as ordinary as could be. But

the blade, the blade itself…

“Unless it’s a two-hander,” explained Barra, “a sword should be balanced about

three inches from the quillons. The way a blade is made affects its balance, of course,

the size and cross-section, but so does the weight of the pommel. Barra believes it is

always best to have a small pommel, and this should be exactly right for the sword—

and for you.”

Konrad was itching to hold the weapon, but Barra kept a firm grip upon it,

explaining various points of its construction.

“By hollowing out these grooves on either side, the blade becomes lighter, yet

without losing any strength. All the different layers of metal make the sword far more

flexible and stronger. There is warpdust in there, as you know. There is also silver.”

Barra sucked in his lower lip, baring his upper teeth. “Good for vampires!” he

laughed.

“Yes,” agreed Konrad, reaching out towards the polished weapon.

“And because of all the layers,” said Barra, drawing the blade away, “the edge

itself is far tougher and lasts longer. Resharpening is not too difficult, you’ll find.

Make sure that it’s done evenly on both sides, slowly, a few inches at a time.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Barra will give you a whetstone, at no extra charge.”

Barra gripped the sword in his right hand, holding it up, turning it, inspecting it

for flaws. It glinted in the red glow from the furnace. He walked outside, and Konrad

followed. There was a wagon in the courtyard, and Lodnar was holding the blinkered

horse which stood between the shafts. The animal seemed very nervous. Whatever

was on the back of the wagon was hidden by a huge piece of canvas. Lodnar handed

Barra a key.

“You must have heard stories of swordsmiths plunging new blades into living

flesh to temper the metal,” said Barra, as he went towards the rear of the wagon.

Konrad nodded, and by now he knew what was under the canvas. He could smell

it.

“It doesn’t work. Barra has tried it. Heat softens a blade, and although a body

might seem soft it’s full of bones which can damage the hot metal. And after all that

work, who wants that? A quenching tank filled with blood, however, can be quite

effective.”

He pulled the canvas from the back of the wagon to reveal a cage—and inside the

cage was a beastman.

The ugly creature roared at the sudden light, and rattled the solid bars with the

claws of one arm; the lower joint of its other front limb had mutated into a curved

blade. Over six feet tall, with a snake-like tail, it was covered in greenish scales.

There was a crest of yellow spines on its head and its face was like that of a bird,

with a sharp beak and tiny black eyes. Venom dripped from its fangs, and the claws

and the talons on its feet were all razor sharp.

“This thing was captured last week,” said Barra. “It got into the city through the

sewers and killed three children who were playing by one of the canals. Or at least

Barra hopes it killed them before it ripped them open and ate their guts.”

111

“Why wasn’t it destroyed when it was caught?”

“Because it’s valuable. They’re used in sporting contests, battles against others of

their kind, or against a pack of dogs, perhaps even against humans. Beast baiting.

Sometimes fighting mutants are bred in captivity. It’s illegal, but there’s a lot of

money to be made from gambling.”

“What’s it doing here?” asked Konrad, although he was beginning to suspect.

“I bought it,” said Barra, glazing up at his growling captive. “It may be a myth

about plunging a red hot blade into living flesh, but it’s a nice idea. Barra is a

traditionalist, as you’ll have noticed, which is why it takes so long to make a sword—

and why Barra’s swords are the best. And, although Barra says so, your blade is one

of the very best. Barra makes the swords, then they are gone. That does not seem

right. Barra ought to use this blade before you do, because it was Barra’s blade

before yours. Barra claims the right of first blood, to sacrifice it as an offering to

Barra’s own gods—the gods of Barra’s ancestors, the gods of fire, of steel, of

weapons.”

He reached up to the cage and slipped the key into the lock, turned it, then

quickly sprang back as the barred door burst open and the reptilian mutant leapt free.

Its ravenous jaws parted and its forked tongue rippled, loudly voicing its inhuman

challenge.

Before its legs even touched the ground Barra darted forward again, the gleaming

blade slicing through the scales of its deformed torso. A geyser of bestial blood

erupted from the wound, and only then did the monster scream. The blade was so

sharp it had not felt it slide through its repulsive body.

Spurting blood and spitting venom, howling out its anger and its agony, the brute

towered above Barra. With a single slice of its mutated forelimb it could have split

the dwarf in twain; a blow from its lashing tail could have crushed his skull.

The sword-limb slashed, but Barra dodged aside with agility, fending off the

chitinous blade with the new weapon. The beastman’s jaws snapped, its claws

grabbed, its tail whipped, and Barra answered every assault with a thrust or a slice

from the warpblade. He seemed to have grown in skill as a swordsman, his expertise

increasing to match the magnificence of the blade which he wielded.

The mutant bellowed more loudly each time that Barra spilled more of its

poisonous blood, and it grew more reckless in its assaults. But every advance was in

vain, and the brute was unable to defend itself; attack was all it knew, what every

primeval instinct commanded.

Roars of defiance were transformed into cries of desperation as it suffered more

remorseless punishment. The beast’s movements became slower and more clumsy as

it was gradually cut to pieces, screaming out its alien agony as it slowly bled to death.

The dwarf did not hack at the thing, dismembering it by sheer force, but instead

he carefully dissected its living body as a butcher would divide a carcass: flaying the

outer layers, eviscerating the offal, carving the flesh, stripping the bones.

And the creature would not die. It was still screeching, still twitching, even

though its body was a gory mass of flesh and blood and bones, when Barra ceased his

vivisection and stepped back to examine the sword. Then he advanced once again,

raised the blade and brought it down fast, severing scale and sinew, breaking bones

112

and blood vessels in the final execution. The beastman’s head rolled away, still

screeching, while the body kept twitching in an ugly parody of life.

Barra leaned the sword against the wagon wheel, and the blade was greasy with

fresh blood. He moved back, gazing at the weapon, then gestured towards it.

“It’s yours,” he said, and he walked away towards the armoury.

“Here,” said Lodnar, and he handed Konrad a rag in exchange for the last

payment of gold crowns.

Konrad walked across the cobbles, which were sticky with gore, and he took hold

of the sword hilt in his right hand. Without lifting the weapon from the ground, he

knelt down and slowly wiped it clean with a single downward sweep of the rag. As

he did so, he saw the blade in close detail for the first time.

It was truly magnificent.

The surface was like quicksilver, seeming to shimmer if viewed from a slightly

different angle. There were ripples upon the blade, like jewels with infinitely

different facets, some of them whirlpools of iridescence which became more intense

as they spiralled inwards, others coruscating prisms which radiated across the whole

length of the metal.

The hollow down the centre was like a valley worn away over the aeons,

revealing different strata of ancient rock: a whole rainbow of colours which had been

formed from the original five layers of metal.

And the tip of the blade, so sharp, and the edges, so keen, they were a colour

beyond the spectrum. Far more than the sum of their original hues, they had been

multiplied by the addition of fire and air, by the water to quench and the coals to

burn; the elements of the world. Every constituent layer of metal could still be

distinguished where the blade narrowed at its killing edges: all three hundred and

sixty levels, the five component metals tripled and doubled and doubled, then tripled

and doubled once again.

Finally Konrad lifted the sword, feeling its weight, sensing its balance, holding

the weapon firmly in his grip.

He raised the new sword high above his head, as though triumphant victory were

already his.

It was as if the warblade had always been a part of him.

113

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Until the previous week, Konrad had paid little attention to whatever sword he

carried. It was simply a weapon, and it was of no consequence how it had been made

or where it came from. He had possessed many blades, but the only thing that

mattered was whether they served their required function.

After what he had seen recently, he would view even the lowliest of daggers with

respect. It, too, had once been a piece of shapeless metal, given form by the skills of

a village blacksmith. And long before that, the metal had been a lump of ore, dug out

of the ground and refined and made into ingots. Konrad had some knowledge of that

kind of process, having seen the way that gold was produced at the mine in Kislev.

He thought about the five metals which had gone to make up his new sword, and

he wondered where they had been originally mined. Had each come from a different

region of the world, brought from distant continents and across vast oceans so they

could be welded into one blade?

On the frontier, metals from broken weapons were often melted down and used

again. But the blades of defeated Chaos renegades were never used, because they

would corrupt any untainted metal, causing it to corrode and rust very swiftly. All

kinds of metal were precious, and it seemed likely that some of the materials which

Barra had fabricated into the new sword had once formed part of other weapons,

weapons used by warriors in far-off lands who had fought in ancient battles. The men

who had carried such blades were long gone, nothing but dust, and yet their weapons

had been reincarnated in Konrad’s exquisite sword.

And some day, long after Konrad was dead and forgotten, his own blade would

have become part of a whole armoury of weapons carried by a legion of tomorrow’s

fighting men: spears and axes, lances and swords, knives and arrowheads.

All Konrad could hope was that such a time was very distant, and that his new

blade would postpone the final day when he must inevitably fall in battle.

As he gazed up the River Reik, however, he realized that the voyage was bringing

that day closer and closer. He was convinced that Skullface and Elyssa were still in

Altdorf. As if he still had the gift of premonition, he knew that he would meet up with

them both once he reached the Imperial capital. He also knew that he would not

survive his confrontation with Skullface. But this encounter was what his whole life

had been leading up to, and he could no more prevent himself from completing the

voyage than he could have made himself stop breathing.

Konrad spent as much time as possible on deck, because he felt too confined if he

remained below. His hand was on the pommel of his blade as he glanced up at the

sails of the pirate vessel.

114

Just as he had never given any thought to how a sword was made, neither until

now had he considered how a ship could sail upriver, against the flow of the water

and also against the wind.

His first boat ride had been along the River Lynsk, upstream from Erengrad to

Praag, and Konrad had paid very little attention to the ship and how it operated. He

was too interested in watching the new land through which he was passing. Now,

however, he was studying the vessel all the time, because that was preferable to

considering what lay ahead once he reached Altdorf.

Wolf had arranged for two corsairs to sail towards the Imperial capital,

persuading them that the city was vulnerable to assault because the army had been so

depleted by the number of troops who had been sent to defend the Kislev frontier. He

had also convinced the pirate chiefs that he was the only person who could unlock

the secret of the city’s untold wealth. Each ship was an ordinary merchant vessel, but

its cargo was far from ordinary. The lower decks were packed with ruthless

desperadoes, men whose whole life was devoted to death and destruction, to

attacking helpless ships and looting their cargoes. They normally had two enemies,

the craft they attacked and also the ocean. The sea could be a more implacable and

dangerous opponent than the pirates themselves, but upon the Reik they had no such

enemy with which to contend.

Instead, they were hidden beneath the hatches, kept quiet by uncounted barrels of

ale, and whatever amusements they themselves had brought on board. They were not

very quiet, however. Only at night were they allowed on deck, when the two vessels

had tied up during the hours of darkness.

The ships stayed far apart, as if they were unconnected. Wolf’s plan was that the

first vessel should enter Altdorf and tie up at one of the port’s many berths. The

second would then show its true colours, reveal the guns which had been disguised as

deck cargo, and begin firing upon the capital. The cannon had been transferred on

board from the fast ocean-going ships in which the pirates usually set sail; they were

huge, cast from solid metal and decorated with dragons and strange hieroglyphics.

They had been built in Cathay, and the gunners were also from that fabled continent.

Both ships were crewed by men from all over the world.

The cannon attack would be a diversion, during which the pirates on board the

first vessel would begin their assault from within the city walls. Or that was what

Wolf had told the pirates…

He and Konrad, Litzenreich and Ustnar, were on board the first of the two ships.

Marienburg was very lax in its regulations, and the vessel had weighed anchor and

sailed upstream without being inspected. There were a number of places on the Reik

where it halted under the shadow of a fortress and was made to pay river dues. The

fees payable depended upon the cargo being carried, but the majority of customs

officials preferred to negotiate without having to board the vessels they should have

examined. They were used to dealing with smugglers, and as long as their own

personal charges were met they were happy to impose arbitrary official rates.

The Reik was the most important river in the Empire, in all of the Old World. Its

headwaters lay far to the south-east, within the World’s Edge Mountains. One of its

sources was a spring in Black Fire Pass, which according to legend had originally

115

bubbled to the surface when Sigmar first set down Ghal-maraz after his triumphant

victory over the goblins.

This made the Reik the longest of all rivers, and it also carried the greatest

number of vessels, craft of every type and dimension. So wide and so deep were its

waters that ocean-going ships could navigate as far as the capital. Even the tallest of

masts did not need to be lowered to pass beneath bridges, because every bridge on

the river had a central section which could either be raised or swung aside to permit

passage.

The pirate ship made its way slowly upstream, past the villages and towns which

had grown up on the banks of the great river. All of them must have been tempting

targets for the raiders, despite the brooding castles which stood high on the

outcropping rocks above each centre of habitation. They passed isolated farmsteads,

lonely windmills, terraced fields where vines grew, and mile after mile of

impenetrable forest. The river was seldom straight for very long, was always twisting

between high valleys or meandering across fertile pasture, and all the time it carried

the vessel closer to Altdorf.

The days passed, and the nights, and Konrad was glad that his sword seemed so

ordinary. Any one of the pirates would have slain him for his blade, even though they

were meant to be allies. They must all have killed for far less, and the same was true

of their officers. Konrad seldom saw the captain of the ship; it was the first officer

who handled all the daily routine.

He came from the Estalian Kingdoms, and he gave his name as Guido. He said he

could not reveal his family name, because he was of royal blood and preferred to hide

his identity. The best way to have hidden it, thought Konrad, was not to admit that

one was trying to do so.

“I ran away to sea,” said Guido, “and now I’m surrounded by land. It makes me

ill looking at it, the way it keeps still all the time.”

Guido was about thirty years old, of medium height but slender build, and he was

far removed from Konrad’s idea of a pirate. He was cultured and educated, and

perhaps really was of high birth. Always dressed in the finest of clothes, which he

changed every day, the others on board the ship obeyed his every order with utmost

alacrity. His authority came from his position, not his physical strength. The only

time there had been any trouble on board was when a topsail was not rigged to

Guido’s satisfaction. The two men responsible were immediately flogged, and Guido

watched while the cabin boy gave him his regular morning shave. Even Captain de

Tevoir treated his first officer with respect, almost as if it were Guido who were the

ship’s master.

“My ancestors were bandits and brigands,” said Guido. “They carved out a slice

of Estalia hundreds of years ago, and established themselves as rulers. But there was

no place for me there. My eldest brother inherited the throne from my father before I

was even born. It was lucky he let me survive. Lucky for me, but not for him. One

day I’ll return, depose Alphonso and seize my father’s kingdom for myself.” He

shrugged. “If I can ever be bothered going back to that dump.”

He watched as a sailing barge passed slowly by, heading downstream. His gaze

was predatory, and he must have wished that he could drop his vessel’s masquerade

and loot the passing vessel.

116

At first, Konrad tried to avoid Guido. He did not want to have too many dealings

with a man he would have to betray, and perhaps even kill. But it was difficult to stay

far away on the deck of such a small ship, and they began to spend more and more

time in each other’s company. Guido loaned him books, histories the like of which

Konrad had never imagined.

It took a while for him to realize that he had been reading mere fables, invented

tales whose resemblance to actual events was very remote. Once he discovered this,

and knew that he did not have to study the books as diligently as all the others he had

previously read, he enjoyed the improbable adventures considerably. And Guido’s

own tales were almost as wildly spectacular as those which Konrad had read.

In the years since he had left his native village, Konrad had travelled from one

side of the Empire to the other, and even beyond. But Guido had travelled from one

end of the world, completely circumnavigating the globe, before returning to where

he had begun.

Konrad had no idea how much was true, or how much of what Guido related had

actually happened to the pirate himself, but he was fascinated by the tales of all the

different lands and the people and creatures who dwelled there.

“I’ve been everywhere,” Guido said, “seen every kind of person—and killed

every kind!” He drew his finger across his throat as he spoke, smiling grimly.

It was only on such occasions that Konrad recalled who he was dealing with: a

cold-blooded killer, someone who would murder a helpless baby without hesitation.

That was Guido’s life—to kill and to plunder—and that was why he and his ship

were heading towards Altdorf. He was after the richest prize in the Old World, the

Imperial capital itself. It was of no consequence how many had to suffer or die so

long as Guido and his comrades showed a profit from their marauding voyage.

They passed safely beyond Carroburg, where the River Bogen flowed into the

Reik, and finally came to a halt some twenty miles upstream from the capital,

between the villages of Rottefach and Walfen.

“It’s time for us to go ashore,” Wolf told the captain. “We must go ahead and

reconnoitre.”

For almost the first time since leaving Marienburg, all three of Konrad’s

companions were on deck together. Many of the crew were aloft in the rigging,

furling the sails; others were securing the vessel to the riverbank.

“But of course,” agreed de Tevoir. “You’ll get horses in the next village?”

“Yes.”

“You will only need two.”

“Two?” said Wolf, and a moment later his hand was on the hilt of his black

sword.

Konrad reacted simultaneously, as he also realized what the captain meant, and

he began to draw his new blade for the first time. But neither of them was fast

enough, and in moments they were ensnared by the ropes which had been dropped

down onto them by the sailors on the spars above. Litzenreich and Ustnar were also

caught, although the dwarf was able to tear his way through the first coils which

looped around him. Before he could swing his axe, however, he was clubbed

senseless and fell to the deck.

117

“Two horses,” said Captain de Tevoir. “One for you, one for him.” He gestured

towards Litzenreich. “Be back here by dawn, or else these two die.”

It was almost noon, and Konrad turned as he saw another vessel rounding the

bend downstream. He recognized the second pirate ship. They were joining up for the

first time since leaving port.

“That isn’t enough time,” said Wolf.

“Dawn,” de Tevoir repeated. “Both of you be back here by then, or—”

“We’ll be back,” agreed Wolf, and he looked at Konrad.

“And by then you’ll have fixed it so we can all sail peacefully into Altdorf

together.”

“Naturally” said Wolf, as though that had been his intention from the very start.

The captain gave a command, and the mercenary and the magician were released

from the ropes which had trapped them.

“If you’re not here,” added de Tevoir, “we’re still sailing upstream—only there

won’t be as many of us on board.” He used his cutlass to indicate his captives, in case

Wolf was unsure who he meant.

Konrad struggled against his bonds, but to no avail. Instead he was seized and

bound more tightly, tied upright against the mainmast. His belt was unbuckled, his

new sword taken away. He had never had a chance to draw the blade, never fought in

combat, never shed enemy blood.

Guido leaned on the bulwark, watching as Wolf and Litzenreich departed. He

turned around as Ustnar was hauled to his feet and securely lashed to the same mast

as Konrad. They stood back to back, and the first officer walked slowly across the

deck to stand in front of Konrad. He held out his hand, and one of the pirates handed

him Konrad’s sword belt.

“If it was me,” he said, “I wouldn’t come back.”

“They aren’t you,” said Konrad.

“No, but you think they’ll come back?”

Konrad said nothing.

“Would you?” asked Guido.

“Yes.”

Guido nodded slowly. “You probably would; Wolf probably would; the sorcerer

wouldn’t.”

That was what had been bothering Konrad. Litzenreich thought only of himself.

He would not return, not even to help Ustnar. Even if he were not in danger,

Litzenreich would do nothing that was not in his own interest. And returning to the

pirate vessel could certainly be excluded from that category.

“But they both must return,” said Guido, turning his head towards the south-east,

towards Altdorf. He glanced at the weapon he was carrying, took hold of the

scabbard in his left hand and the hilt in his right, then began slowly drawing the blade

from its oiled sheath.

“Nice,” he said. “Very nice indeed.”

118

“If it was up to me,” said Guido, that afternoon, “I’d untie you, Konrad. But I have to

follow orders. And I suppose you wouldn’t want to be unbound if the dwarf was kept

tied. I could trust you, but not him. You see my dilemma—and yours?”

“Just shut up, will you?” said Konrad, angrily.

“It annoys you, does it, my talking? In that case, I’ll keep on talking.”

Konrad felt very weary, and his limbs were stiff. He had been expertly tied; he

could hardly move, yet the ropes did not cut excessively into his flesh or impede the

circulation of his blood.

“We aren’t stupid,” Guido continued, “or at least some of us aren’t. Did you

really think we would let all of you leave? In our business, we often take hostages.

Some people are too valuable to kill, and they can be held for ransom.

“How much are you worth, Konrad? Is there anyone who would pay for your

freedom? No? It’s the same with me. We are so alike, you and I. We both have only

one name, although I doubt somehow that you are of noble blood. And speaking of

blood, it seems that you will soon be losing a great deal of yours. As well as your

life, of course. Have you ever thought much about blood, Konrad? Why do we have

it, I wonder? What is it for?”

Guido paused, as if considering the nature of blood, then said, “Would you like

me to read to you, Konrad? Would you like to hear a fabulous tale of distant

Lustria?”

“No.”

“A story of what once happened to an unfortunate wastrel in Naggaroth?”

“No.”

“What about one of my own adventures in Araby?”

“No!”

“There’s no pleasing some people.” Guido sighed, but he was becoming more

amused at Konrad’s irritation. “One day, you realize, I will be telling of how I took

part in the sack of Altdorf. It will go down in history. Such a pity you won’t see the

great event. You will be there, let me assure you, tied to one of the yardarms. Captain

de Tevoir thinks that the bodies of his most recent victims bring the ship good luck. I

wonder how he will have you killed?”

Konrad bit his lower lip, forcing himself not to respond.

“I think it should be with your own sword. Quite appropriate, and poetic, don’t

you think? I’d consider it an honour to execute you, Konrad. And, believe me, it

would be done swiftly and as painlessly as possible.”

Konrad bit even harder, tasting blood. He clenched his fists and closed his eyes.

Would he be the first human victim of the magnificent blade which had been made

especially for him?

“But what about the dwarf? What should I do with him? Cut off his head with his

axe?”

“Why don’t you shove your own head up your arse?” grunted Ustnar, speaking

for the first time since his capture. “That’s where your mouth already is.”

“We could do that with your ugly head,” said Guido. “Would that be your dying

wish?”

“Go mutate!” growled Ustnar.

119

“Perhaps we could hold a contest between the two of you,” Guido suggested.

“You fight each other. That would produce one of your deaths. The crew love to

watch such duels, it saves them having to fight each other. Human against dwarf,

sword against axe. You could use each other’s weapon. Perhaps I should suggest that

to de Tevoir.”

“You seem very certain that Wolf and Litzenreich won’t return,” said Konrad—

although he felt almost certain himself.

“I know they won’t return,” said Guido. “Ah well, I can’t stand around talking all

day. Unlike you two, I have work to do.”

The rest of the day passed by slowly. It seemed to Konrad that there were fewer

boats on the river than usual, but he could have been imagining it. He kept imagining

all kinds of things—that a war fleet from Altdorf was about to attack the pirate ships,

while an army battalion did the same from the shore; that Wolf and Litzenreich

would return to rescue him and Ustnar.

But nothing happened. The ships lay quietly against the side of the river, their

timbers creaking as they rocked gently back and forth.

On board, the crew sharpened their swords and their knives, making ready for

their impending assault on the greatest city of the Old World.

Night fell, and with the darkness came the cold. Mannslieb rose to the east, but

never climbed far above the horizon, setting a few hours later.

Morrslieb made no appearance. Konrad would have welcomed the lesser moon,

despite its spectral light. No lanterns had been lit on deck, the two ships blending in

with the night. He gazed up at the stars, unable to sleep, not wishing to sleep, and

wondered if he would live to see another dawn.

He woke to the sound of soft footsteps on the deck, at first angry that he had

fallen asleep, then on edge because of what he had heard. The sky was still black,

without any hint of impending sunrise. They could not be coming for him yet, he

realized, and he had detected only one pair of footsteps.

There were two guards positioned nearby, and it was not they who were moving.

The sound was so faint that it seemed neither of them had heard it. Perhaps they had

also fallen asleep. Konrad listened as the first sailor was killed. It was done so

expertly that the second crewman knew nothing about it. Then once again came the

sound of a blade slicing through a throat, and another body crumpled onto the deck.

Konrad felt the ropes which held him being cut, and he turned, trying to see

Wolf’s face.

“Let’s get out of here,” a familiar voice whispered to him and Ustnar.

It was familiar, but it was not Wolf—it was Guido.

This was not a time for questions, and he and the dwarf followed the dim shape

of the first officer as he led them to one side of the ship, down a rope ladder and into

the small boat waiting for them. Guido took the oars and began rowing upstream.

They made their way slowly against the current, away from the two corsairs, and

towards Altdorf. Guido rowed for an hour, by which time the sky had begun to

redden above the hills in the east. He turned the boat towards the south bank of the

river, running it onto the mud.

120

“Here,” he said, shipping the oars and then reaching behind him. He produced

Konrad’s sword and Ustnar’s axe.

Konrad stood up and buckled on his sword belt; Ustnar gazed at Guido, then

slung the axe across his back; and the three of them climbed from the boat and

dragged it ashore, hiding the frail craft in the thick foliage a few yards from the river

bank.

“What’s going on?” asked Konrad.

“Wolf recruited me in Marienburg,” said Guido. “He knew that de Tevoir would

never allow you all to leave. It was my job to get anyone who was left off the ship.”

“What’s in it for you?” asked Ustnar, eyeing him suspiciously.

“I think it may be healthier to be on land than on board ship today, and also far

more profitable.”

It seemed Guido still believed that it was Wolf’s intention to raid the Imperial

treasury—and maybe, thought Konrad, it was…

“Wolf and Litzenreich are waiting for us in Altdorf,” said Guido, “but the two

ships will reach the city first. By the time we get there, it should be quite lively.”

121

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Guido was wrong in one respect: the two pirate ships did not reach Altdorf before

they did. The one upon which Konrad and Ustnar had been held captive was sunk by

the Imperial forces that had attempted to block the river. The other vessel succeeded,

however, its guns blasting a fiery passage through the defensive flotilla. It sailed on

up the Reik towards the capital.

The three of them had managed to pass upstream of the blockading ships before

the battle commenced, and they watched the conflict from the riverbank. Units of the

Altdorf city guard were patrolling each side of the river, to kill any survivors from

the first corsair, and to ensure that no hostile battalions could reach the city by land.

They probably believed the river boats were part of a combined assault.

It took quite a while for Konrad, Ustnar and Guido to evade all the patrols. After

his hours of confinement, the dwarf was eager for action, to seek vengeance for what

had happened to him, and it did not really matter who he killed. At one point they

were hiding only a dozen yards from a foot patrol. Ustnar gripped his axe tightly, as

if restraining the weapon, that without him it would launch itself at the soldiers. He

recognized that he must subdue his bloodlust for a while. They were far too

outnumbered and could not take on the military might of the city’s army and hope to

survive.

Once they reached Altdorf, Konrad realized, they would be up against far more

than the army. Everyone was their enemy: the pirates who were attacking the city, as

well as the forces who were defending it, and also all the creatures of damnation who

dwelled beneath the capital. And what of the Imperial guard? Had every human who

wore the uniform of the Emperor’s bodyguard been subverted, become transformed

into a slave of Chaos?

Long before they came in sight of the white walls of the city, they heard the

sound of gunfire once again. Altdorf was under bombardment from the surviving

pirate ship. They saw many fires within the capital, and clouds of thick black smoke

rose from the various conflagrations. It seemed that Wolf had conjured up the

diversion he had wanted.

“Where is Wolf?” Konrad asked.

“We meet him at sunset,” said Guido.

It would be almost then by the time they reached the city. Their journey had been

long and slow, keeping away from all the woodland tracks in order to avoid the

soldiers.

“And Litzenreich?” asked Ustnar.

“Who knows?” said Guido.

Konrad wondered if the wizard had been aware when he left the ship that Wolf

had arranged for Guido to release de Tevoir’s hostages—even though Konrad and

122

Ustnar themselves did not know—or whether he even cared. But Litzenreich had

made sure that Konrad’s new weapon had included warpstone in its fabrication, and

he knew the sorcerer never did anything without a reason.

Ustnar would do whatever Litzenreich required. Guido seemed to be after as

much plunder as he could steal. Having arranged the voyage to Altdorf and all the

current mayhem, Wolf must also have had a course of action in mind.

As so often, it seemed that Konrad was simply carried by events. But there was

far more to it than that, he had come to realize. The disparate parts of his life were at

last falling into place, forming a pattern that he could almost recognize. He intended

to thwart the plans of the armies of damnation, to prevent them from placing an

impostor upon the Imperial crown. Skullface was at the centre of this nefarious

scheme, Konrad was sure—which meant that he would inevitably be in conflict with

the mysterious figure.

But Konrad wanted more than mere conflict, he wanted a confrontation with

Skullface.

And, no matter what had happened to her, he also wanted to find Elyssa.

Last night he had been a prisoner on board de Tevoir’s ship, and he had begun to

believe he would never see another day. Instead it was the pirate chief who had died.

Konrad had watched the captain being butchered when he waded ashore after his

vessel had been destroyed.

Another night was falling, and this time Konrad more than believed he would not

see the subsequent dawn. He knew…

From their vantage point, he was able to observe that the other pirate ship had not

penetrated the city walls, where it could have bombarded Altdorf to more deadly

effect. It was mid-river, firing at the fortifications and repelling all boarding attempts.

It was difficult to distinguish precisely what was happening, however, because of the

gloom and all the smoke from the guns and the fires.

As they came closer to the city, Konrad noticed that it was not simply drifting

smoke which was obscuring their vision. A pale mist was forming on the river itself,

rising eerily up to blend with the impending night, apparently causing the sun to set

earlier than it should have done. It was not only the eyes which were affected by the

thick mist, but the other senses. Some sounds became magnified, whilst others were

severely muted.

The distant clash of weapons and the screams of the dying that echoed across the

river seemed to be made by a whole legion of warriors fighting another army. There

appeared to be far more damage within the city than could have been caused by one

renegade vessel, no matter how many cutthroats were on board—and none of the

pirates had yet invaded the capital.

Had the regiments of Chaos chosen this time to rise up against the Imperial

forces? Was that the true purpose of Wolf’s diversion? Konrad had discovered that

his comrade, like himself, was touched by Chaos. But had Wolf’s infection

completely corrupted his whole body? How much had his body mutated beneath his

black armour?

Guido had been leading the way, and they cut across from the Reik, heading

diagonally towards the south-west corner of the city walls. The river battle was

obscured from sight, but not from their hearing. Konrad kept watching the

123

battlements. If one of the defenders happened to look down, the three of them would

have been immediately visible and would soon fall victim to a volley of arrows. But

the observation turrets seemed deserted. The mist from the river had begun drifting

across the land and encircling the city, as if following the three of them. At first it

was at ankle height, but slowly began to rise. The fog was cold, very cold, biting

through Konrad’s clothes like a winter Kislev wind. He shivered, chilled to the bone.

They reached a narrow door by the side of one of the main entrances to the

capital. Both the heavy gate and the smaller entrance were firmly closed, which

demonstrated the seriousness of the situation within the city. Altdorf prided itself on

allowing access even during the middle of the night; it was no isolated village

frightened of the dark, terrified of the creatures which inhabited the midnight hours.

Guido halted and leaned against the wall. He put his hand to his mouth, trying to

mask a sudden cough as the mist rose up to his face. Konrad could hardly see him,

and Ustnar had vanished beneath the rising mist.

“We wait,” whispered Guido, pulling his collar up to cover his mouth.

“You seem to know your way around,” said Konrad, gazing up towards the

towers above the massive gate. They also appeared unoccupied.

“I’ve been everywhere,” Guido replied, as the fog enveloped him. He was only a

yard away, but totally invisible.

Konrad drew his new sword. He had done this many times since Barra had made

the blade for him, although never on board the corsair. Previously, his only purpose

had been to admire the sword, to wish that he could wield it in combat. Now he held

the blade because he felt safer with it in his hand, but this was also the first time he

believed he might need to use the weapon.

The fog was as cold in Konrad’s nostrils as it had been on his skin, and he

attempted to breathe shallowly, taking as little of the unnatural air into his lungs as

possible.

He heard the peal of a bell, a sound he knew must have come from a distance,

although it appeared quite near. He had heard the same sound every evening during

his stay in Altdorf. It was the sunset bell, although because of the mist this could

have been any time of the day or night.

Then he heard another sound, and he spun around. The gateway where they stood

was suddenly open, and two figures stood on the other side of the wall. Wolf was

clad in his black armour, Litzenreich wore his dark robes. The three newcomers

hurried through, and Wolf swung the gate closed behind them, cutting out the pale

mist.

“You took your time,” he said.

Konrad jerked an inquisitorial thumb towards Guido.

“He’s with us,” said Wolf. “Did I forget to tell you?” He grinned, baring his

sharpened teeth.

He carried his helmet under his arm. If his body had become transformed, it had

not yet affected his tattooed face.

There was no sign of the fog within the walls, or of anything else. No one was in

sight except the mercenary and the magician. It was as if the entire capital were

deserted.

124

Wolf turned then suddenly halted, gazing into the city.

“Why is it dark?” he demanded, drawing his black sword and glancing at

Litzenreich. “And where is everyone?”

It must have been light a few seconds ago, the streets full of people.

Now everything was almost black. Outside it had been sunset, here it was the

middle of the night. Only Morrslieb was visible in the sky, casting its greenish hue

over the Imperial capital. The spectral moon seemed larger, nearer, than Konrad had

ever seen it previously. It appeared to be directly above the Imperial Palace, almost

touching the replica of Sigmar’s warhammer mounted on top of the spire.

Everything was silent, as if there were no desperate battle taking place beyond the

walls, as if there had been no uprising by the Chaos legions who lurked within.

Konrad saw a sudden movement at his feet, and he thrust out his sword. There

was a screech. He raised the blade, upon which was impaled a rat. He flung its

writhing body aside, noticing that there were thousands of the creatures scurrying

through the streets. It was as if it were a rodent city, that nothing human dwelled

within the walls of the capital.

Shrouded by the freezing mist, the entire city was in thrall to a potent magic spell.

He glanced at Litzenreich who was muttering under his breath and ritually

pointing his staff, evidently conjuring up his own enchantments to protect himself

and his comrades.

“Now what?” he asked Wolf.

“We save the Emperor, of course,” Wolf told him. “What else?”

“Save the Emperor?” echoed Guido. “Save him from what?”

Konrad turned his gaze back to Litzenreich. It seemed he had no objection to

what Wolf had said. The wizard was watching the swarming rats, and he nodded with

approval. The skaven must have been responsible for what was happening to the

Imperial capital—and that meant they were using warpstone for their depraved

sorcery.

“To the Imperial Palace,” said Wolf, and he lowered his helmet into position. The

palace was where Karl-Franz resided when he was in Altdorf, and so he must have

returned from his sojourn in Talabheim.

Wolf turned and hurried away. Litzenreich and Ustnar followed, as did Konrad.

“I don’t know about saving the Emperor,” said Guido, who ran to catch up with

Konrad, “but I’m not staying here on my own.”

Altdorf was the largest city in the Old World, yet it seemed totally uninhabited—

except by a plague of rats. There were lights in the houses, the taverns, but there was

no sign of anyone within; no one else was on the streets except the five of them.

But then Konrad realized they were not alone, that there were numerous faint

shapes in the square. Scores of immobile translucent figures only became visible

when he was almost upon them.

These were the citizens of Altdorf, and they had become like characters in a

painting—although far less substantial.

Were they all dead, and these their spirits?

But a wagon could not have a ghost, and directly ahead was such a vehicle being

pulled by two horses. Konrad reached out to touch the flank of one of the animals,

125

and his left hand sank through its ethereal flesh as easily as if it were water. His

fingers were instantly numb with freezing cold. He drew back his arm immediately,

flexing his fingers and shaking his hand to restore heat and vitality, then hurried on

past the frozen apparitions.

Civilians who had been fleeing the assault, troops who had been rushing into

combat: they were all ghosts, more than dead but less than living.

And they would become truly dead once Chaos took its final fatal grip on the

capital.

Konrad ran without sound, his body casting no moonshadow. When he noticed the

other four, it seemed as though they were moving at half-speed. They ran like figures

viewed in a dream landscape. He felt that he was running normally, but he was

maintaining the same pace as the others, and so his own movements must have been

similarly slowed.

Konrad was glad of the sword hilt in his hand, something he could feel and could

trust. He wished for an enemy, even for a hundred enemies—and he knew he would

not have long to wait.

They entered the palace by way of the main entrance. The gates were wide open,

but the intruders went unchallenged because there were no sentries at their posts, not

even spectral ones.

The Imperial guard were responsible for protecting the palace, but if they had all

become servants of Slaanesh their absence could be explained. Whenever Morrslieb

was full, it was a night when Chaos was on the ascendant.

And Konrad had never known a time when the portents were more menacingly

auspicious. It was as if the legions of Chaos were massed directly outside Altdorf,

and at any moment the city walls would burst asunder and the capital would forever

become a part of the benighted Wastes.

Wolf had halted in the courtyard, deserted except for a wraithlike cavalry troop.

The knights were Templars of Sigmar, riders and horses petrified into intangible

equestrian statues. Litzenreich and Ustnar caught up with him, then Konrad and

Guido joined the other three, and they all stared up at the immense building which

lay before them.

“What’s happening?” Konrad asked Litzenreich.

“Nothing,” answered Litzenreich. “Nothing at all. The world has ceased to move.

All of time is standing still.” He gazed around him. “It is very impressive, is it not?”

Konrad and his comrades were unaffected, as were the rodent vermin which

normally inhabited the sewers beneath the city. And time could not have been frozen

for the ones who had cast the powerful temporal spell—the creatures of damnation

who had claimed the Imperial Palace as their own.

Wolf held his black sword, Konrad his new blade, Guido his cutlass, Ustnar his

axe, and Litzenreich his sorcerer’s staff. Side by side, the five began to climb the

curved flight of wide steps which led up towards the palace entrance. The stone steps

were huge, as if built for giants, and everything within the main building had also

been constructed on an exaggerated scale.

126

The first doorway was almost big enough for de Tevoir’s corsair to have sailed

through. The chamber beyond was vast, its high vaulted ceiling supported by flying

buttresses upon which were carved all kinds of mythical beings and fabulous beasts.

The walls on either side were lined with enormous statues of every previous

Emperor, like a rank of troops all arrayed in their Imperial finery.

Flights of marble steps to either side led up to the higher levels of the palace,

where the day to day business of administering the Empire was conducted, and to the

Emperor’s private quarters.

“That way,” said Litzenreich, his staff pointing directly ahead.

Wolf hesitated, but Konrad did not. He ran towards the arch. Beyond, he knew,

each successive room was dedicated to a different Imperial ruler. Filled with trophies

and the spoils of forgotten campaigns, the chambers were decorated with paintings

and tapestries depicting the entire history of each reign.

And in the centre of each room was a stone plinth bearing the mortal remains of

each Emperor. Sometimes there would be a stone coffin, sometimes a gold

sarcophagus; sometimes there were gilded bones, and sometimes nothing. Altdorf

had not always been the Imperial capital, and many Emperors had been interred

elsewhere. But each of them had their own chamber within the palace, and by each

plinth, whether empty or not, stood a member of the Imperial guard. Not only were

they the guardians of the present Emperor, but of every previous one.

The other four followed as Konrad entered the first room, which was that of

Luitpold, the father of Karl-Franz. His body lay encased within a bejewelled casket,

upon which his effigy had been embossed. It was illuminated by the haunted light of

Morrslieb, which filtered through the panels of the stained glass circle in the high

ceiling. His bodyguard stood on duty by the coffin, resplendent in his shining

uniform. Everything appeared as it should have done— except that the guard was not

human…

Unlike everyone beyond the confines of the Imperial Palace, the sentry was more

than an immaterial spirit. But, like those who had attacked the Grey Stoat tavern, he

was a beastman with bovine features. His face was tusked, his head horned.

Konrad was about to attack when he noticed that the creature appeared to be as

dead as Luitpold. The brute stood without breathing, without even blinking, as

lifeless as one of the statues in the outer hallway—or as everyone else in Altdorf.

Day or night, each of the sacred halls was lit by a series of perfumed candles

which rested in sconces along the walls. There was something strange about the

candles, and Konrad paused to examine one of them. It was lit, but the flame did not

flicker. There was no smell from the scented tallow, no heat from the flame, and the

light cast no shadow. He hesitated for a moment, then ran his hand through the flame,

and it felt cold, almost as if the fire were frozen. He shivered and tried to blow out

the flame, then to extinguish the tiny ersatz blaze between his thumb and forefinger,

but all to no avail.

The five went on, and the next chamber was similar to the first: a coffin

reverently protected by a beastman in the uniform of an Imperial guard, surrounded

by relics of the Emperor and decorated by scenes of his triumphs, all illuminated by

numinous moonlight and the ghostly candles.

127

Each successive room was more ancient than the one before, having been

constructed upon the death of that Emperor. The halls had been added wherever there

was space, sometimes at right angles, sometimes on a different level. Racing through

the chambers, travelling back over the aeons, was like going through a maze.

Wolf was a few paces behind Konrad when he suddenly yelled, “This time you

die!”

Konrad instinctively leapt aside, turning and raising his new sword—but Wolf’s

challenge had been issued to someone else, some invisible entity.

He swung his black sword, slicing the blade through the empty air. He lunged

forward, swiftly bringing up his shield to protect himself.

Konrad watched in disbelief as Wolf was thrown back by the weight of a

disembodied foe, which sent him crashing against an antique lacquered cabinet

containing a priceless collection of porcelain, every piece of which crumbled into

powder. Then Wolf sprang back into the attack, launching himself against an

opponent only visible to him. His sword thrust forward, striking at nothingness.

While the other three went on, Konrad held back, hoping to help Wolf in his

battle—but he could see no enemy.

Wolf was fighting against an unknown adversary from his past. It was his own

personal battle, and there was nothing that Konrad could do. He had to go on, he

must go on.

He turned and followed the wizard and the dwarf and the pirate as they proceeded

through the next chambers, their footsteps silent upon the marble floors.

A minute later it was the turn of Ustnar to fall prey to the spectral adversaries

who haunted his past.

He was advancing past an ancient sarcophagus when suddenly he yelled out a

dwarf warcurse. His axe swung, and he screamed out his battlecry, his eyes focused

on something which no one else could see. The weapon which Barra had made for

him caused mayhem within the hallowed hall. The bestial guard was not his foe, but

a wild swing of the battleaxe sliced through the sentry’s armour—and the sentry

within, splitting him in twain. The two halves of the beastman fell slowly to the floor.

Like a statue, the corpse did not bleed.

Ustnar’s axe repeatedly hacked through the air and whatever else was in range,

seeking out the insubstantial enemy which seemed to be taking refuge behind the

material objects in the chamber. Tapestries were shredded, paintings slashed, ancient

armour wrecked, the fragile stone coffin itself dislodged from the plinth where it had

lain undisturbed for centuries, cracking open and spilling the ancient emperor’s

fragile bones onto the floor. Ustnar kicked the skull away, yelling another fearsome

oath as he launched himself once more at his unknown foe, destroying everything

else that lay in his path.

Again, Konrad could do nothing. There must be no diversions, and he ventured

deeper into the palace, amongst the tombs and memorials of the emperors who had

lived and died a millennium and a half ago. The sound of Ustnar’s battle was soon

lost, as if it were taking place far away—or long ago.

He felt cold, colder than when the mist had enshrouded his body, but his skin

prickled with sweat. He and Litzenreich glanced at one another for a moment, and the

wizard must also have been wondering who would be the next to succumb to the

128

palace’s secret defences. They advanced together, separating only to pass on either

side of each plinth and the mutated sentry who guarded it, while Guido followed.

“Please!” begged Litzenreich, falling to his knees and gazing up at nothing—

nothing and everything.

But even as he pleaded, he was pointing with his staff and conjuring up a spell:

aiming at the unseen threat, about to use his magical powers to strike out in defiance.

The chamber was suddenly ablaze with streaks of multicoloured lightning,

appearing from the empty air, all of which were aimed Litzenreich. He used his staff

to fend them off, as a swordsman would parry blows with his blade. Then he was

back on his feet, retaliating in kind, and bolts of energy cascaded from his wand.

It was even more dangerous to be near Litzenreich than Ustnar, and Konrad left

him to fight his own battle. He and Guido hurried on into the next hall of the dead,

and then the next. Every chamber through which they passed was a step back in time,

as if they were walking across the centuries.

Until at last they reached the final sacred hall, the one which was dedicated to

Sigmar himself.

129

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

There were more legends told of Sigmar Heldenhammer than of any other Emperor,

and yet this chamber was the most barren. Sigmar had founded the Empire, and the

walls were covered with numerous friezes in his honour; but all of the paintings and

sculptures had been made long after Sigmar’s reign. The first emperor had lived two

and a half thousand years ago, and he had not been seen since he had made his final

journey back to Black Fire Pass to return Ghal-maraz to the dwarf race—not seen by

anyone human. Upon the plinth where his mortal remains should have lain was a

black velvet cushion which bore the only known relic of his reign. It was the handle

of the dagger which Sigmar had carried at the battle of Black Fire Pass.

Konrad halted. There could be no going on, because this was the last chamber

and there was but one doorway. He stared around, knowing that whatever was

waiting for him must have been here. He gazed up, seeing the deformed shape of

Morrslieb through the stained glass. The moon had been in exactly the same position

in each chamber of the necropolis. Normally it passed across the night sky far more

swiftly. But tonight it had become still. Time had indeed ceased to exist. There was

no time—and there was every time.

He looked at Guido, who returned his gaze. The pirate frowned and raised his

hand towards his lips. He opened his mouth as if to speak, and Konrad saw his

tongue move—then realized it could not be a tongue. It was brown, it was covered in

fur…

The head of a rat appeared from Guido’s mouth!

One of the pirate’s cheeks bulged and split, and the bloody snout of another rat

ripped through the flesh. His left eye disappeared, and a third rat burst through the

cavity—its sharp teeth chewing upon the eyeball.

Guido’s entire body shook and trembled, then was suddenly torn apart from

within as a fetid horde of blood-drenched rats spewed out from his innards, from his

chest and his guts, his arms and his legs. He had been devoured from within, his

human shape supported by a skeleton of rodents.

Konrad gazed in horror as Guido’s clothes and shed skin and cutlass fell to the

ground. The squealing pack of rats dispersed throughout the chamber, vanishing into

the holes along the edges of the walls.

This was truly skaven sorcery. The Imperial guard may have become devotees of

Slaanesh, but it was the servants of the Horned God who had drawn Konrad into the

heart of the Imperial Palace.

Clutching his new sword, Konrad remembered that the warp-stone within the

blade had come from the ratbeasts who had attacked on High Bridge. Had those

skaven been a deliberate sacrifice, to beckon him along the Reik? And when he had

130

voyaged towards Altdorf it was Guido, a skaven construct, who had made sure that

he escaped from the pirate ship.

And now Konrad was alone once more, as he had been so often in his life. His

mouth was dry, his heart thudding in his chest, his palms damp.

He had been drawn into a trap. The only escape was to retreat the way he had

come. He turned—and saw a deformed creature rushing towards him. It had appeared

from nowhere, and all his reasoning told him that it could not possibly exist.

Its body was translucent, and it was one of the most primitive mutants he had

ever encountered: shambling and ungainly, with matted grey fur, the face of a dog,

fanged and taloned, carrying a rusty sword.

The beast seemed somehow familiar, but Konrad did not know why. He raised

his own sword, bringing it swiftly down across the thing’s neck, trying to decapitate

the brute. His sword passed straight through, without any resistance. The apparition

began to dissolve, however, but was immediately replaced by another beastman.

This one was huge, its face upside down, clad in pieces of tarnished armour,

wearing a weapons belt around its fat belly and with an axe growing out of the end of

its right arm. And this one Konrad did recognize: it was the first beast he had slain

the day that his village had been annihilated. It was the one he had skinned, whose

hide he had used to camouflage himself. He tried to kill the creature again, plunging

his blade into its chest, but the mutant was already disintegrating, its place

immediately claimed by yet another creature of the damned—this time a skaven.

Then he remembered the first monstrosity, where he had seen it before. It was the

beastman he had stabbed to death when it attacked Elyssa. They had met the first

time that day because he had saved the girl’s life.

He swung at the skaven, and that also melted away, to be replaced by a creature

which seemed to be half-insect, half-human. It had the legs of a man, the upper body

of what might have been an ant, with four thin limbs growing from its black

carapace. And like all the others, it was already dead. He had slain the beast with his

bow and arrow when his village was assaulted. It was a ghost, they were all ghosts. It

seemed that he was being assailed by the spirits of all the beastmen he had ever

slain—and each time he swung at them, each time one vanished and was supplanted

by the next, Konrad felt weakened.

When yet another creature materialized, this time above him, he tried to lift his

sword but it felt almost too heavy. It was one of the flying beasts which had swooped

upon Konrad when he had returned with Wolf to the site of his destroyed village. The

creature had more substance than the previous mutants, and yet Konrad’s sword

could make no impact upon his assailant. As with all the other brutes, the blade

passed harmlessly into its scaly hide and through its incorporeal body.

Then Konrad saw that his weapon was becoming transparent—and so was his

own arm! His sleeve seemed to have vanished, his skin to have evaporated. He saw

the veins which carried his blood, the tendons and sinews beneath the missing flesh.

Then they too faded away, leaving nothing but whitened bone, which also

disappeared as if disintegrating over the aeons.

His energy was being drained through the sword, sucked into those he was trying

to destroy. Instead it was they who were destroying him, making themselves stronger

131

and more substantial while his vitality ebbed away. His whole essence seemed to be

vanishing, his entire body growing invisible.

He backed away, not wanting to use his blade, because that was how he was

being depleted. The warpdust had come from the skaven, and it was the warpdust

which was leeching his lifeforce.

But without Konrad trying to defend himself, the flying beast-man pressed

forward, its own sword sweeping at him. The weapon passed through Konrad’s body,

leaving no physical mark, yet stealing more of his substance.

More and more hideous shapes materialized all around him, the shadows of his

bestial victims. They had long ago perished, but they seemed far more alive than

Konrad. It was he who belonged to the ghostly realm.

He was fading, fading faster, while his enemies screamed in silent triumph,

growing more tangible with every moment. And with every moment, Konrad

dissolved a fraction more.

He found himself pressed up against the plinth upon which lay Sigmar’s one holy

relic—against it and into it…

He reached out with his left hand, trying to hold himself back, and saw his fingers

melting deeper into the stone. Raising his hand up through the plinth, through the

velvet cushion, he touched what remained of the knife, and was able to feel the

ancient ivory handle against his palm. He took a firm grip, and as he did so his fist

regained its shape and colour.

Konrad saw his hand again properly—and he also saw the blade of the knife.

The metal of Sigmar’s knife which had rusted away centuries ago was visible

once more, sharp and gleaming as if newly forged. Where there had been a cold

numbness in Konrad’s fingers, there was now warmth. He sensed a glow rising up his

arm, and his limb swiftly lost its transparency.

He was becoming whole once more, becoming more than whole. A surge of

energy suffused his entire body, replenishing his lost strength. He felt totally

invigorated, and he leapt forth against his legion of enemies. He had destroyed them

once, and now he must obliterate them again.

Instead of draining his spirit, the warpblade now gave Konrad new vitality. The

sword sliced through the air—and through ugly feral flesh, killing the undead. These

were the Chaos breed that he had battled on the Kislev frontier, which had now been

reborn in the heart of the Empire, and which he had to defeat once more. Their

mutated bodies had long ago rotted, but this time he was conquering their souls,

casting their foul spirits into eternal oblivion.

He also used Sigmar’s knife to drive the unliving horde away, stabbing and

gouging at the flesh which was not flesh, and which lost its substance at the same rate

with which his own powers increased.

Yet it was as if the dagger were wielded by some external force, that Konrad had

control of the right side of his body, whilst his left was under the influence of some

greater entity.

He had felt this way before, during the battle with the cave-dwelling goblins.

Then, he knew, he had been truly possessed, driven to supreme feats by the authority

of the spiritual power which had manipulated his complete being.

132

“There is some part of Sigmar in everyone,” Galea had told him. “There is more

of Sigmar in you than in most.”

Again Konrad was Sigmar’s chosen warrior, destroying the malevolent invaders

who had dared to invade the god’s most ancient sepulchre.

Awareness was immediate: it was not the skaven who had lured Konrad here,

although that was what they believed; it was the spirit of Sigmar who had guided

Konrad to this place, to this time.

Konrad opened his mind to the founder of the Empire, to the man who had

become a god.

Together, yet as one, fighting within a single physical body, they slew the

battalions of damnation, driving them back to the abyss of darkness whence they had

been spawned.

Rivers of invisible blood gushed forth, dozens of insubstantial limbs were

severed, scores of unseen bones were snapped, organs sliced, entrails spilled. All of

Konrad’s years of carnage were compressed into one titanic ordeal of death.

He slew them all again, all the festering Chaos vermin he had ever fought. The

goblins in the dwarf temple and Kastring the pagan chief, the pale troglodytes

beneath Altdorf and Zuntermein the Slaaneshi priest, Taungar the corrupted sergeant

and the skaven pack who had attacked on the bridge in Marienburg.

They were all but faint incarnations of their previous selves, forever banished by

the potency of Konrad’s warpblade and the innate power of Sigmar’s holy dagger.

And then the battle was over, every opponent defeated, and Konrad was alone

within himself. The spirit of Sigmar had returned to the outer realms where he

dwelled, and Konrad felt both exhausted and yet revitalized.

He glanced around, and nothing seemed to have changed. The Imperial guard

stood in his place, still immobile, still a bull-creature. Morrslieb cast its haunted

luminescence over the mausoleum, while the candle flames remained frozen.

Konrad looked down at the knife in his left hand, the hand which was once more

his own, and he watched as the blade slowly faded into invisibility. Once more all

that was left of Sis-mar’s dagger was the fragile bone handle. He put the ancient

weapon back in its place upon the black velvet cushion. Then, except for Guido’s

remains upon the marble slabs, everything was truly as it had been before he entered

the chamber.

Except for Silver Eye.

“Konrad,” hissed the skaven, “you going to try and kill me once more, yes?”

The ratbeast was standing in a corner of the chamber, as if he had materialized

out of the shadows. He looked like Silver Eye, with the same tribal markings, the

same scavenged armour, the same metal teeth, the same piece of warpstone in place

of his left eye, the same jagged sword, and he carried the triangular shield which bore

the golden crest of mailed fist and crossed arrows. But he did not sound like Silver

Eye.

“Gaxar!” gasped Konrad.

“Who else?”

Konrad raised his sword and rushed towards the skaven.

133

“Stop! Stop!” commanded Gaxar, and he lifted his own sword. “One step and the

Emperor dies!”

Only then did Konrad notice that the transformed grey seer was not alone in the

gloom. There was a human figure to his right, a figure that Konrad recognized from

paintings and from the Imperial currency. It was Karl-Franz of the House of the

Second Wilhelm, the Emperor himself—or the doppelganger that Gaxar had created

in his subterranean lair beneath Middenheim.

“That’s not the Emperor,” Konrad said, but he halted.

“Perhaps not,” said Gaxar. “But if that’s not the Emperor, then this is!”

He gestured to his left, and there was another man with him in the dimness.

Another Emperor Karl-Franz.

One of them was the true Emperor, but which? Or were they both impostors,

created by Gaxar’s necromantic talents?

“I knew you could give the dead a semblance of life,” said Konrad, “but how did

you revive yourself?”

That was thanks to my loyal bodyguard. After you slew me, Fenbrod did me the

honour of devouring my innards—my brain, my heart, my liver. He consumed the

essence of my being so that I might be reincarnated within his body.”

“And Fenbrod?” Konrad had never known Silver Eye’s true name until now, and

neither had he cared.

“There was only room for one of us within his body. He sacrificed himself for

me, as a loyal servant should do. I must admit it is pleasant to have two paws once

again, although the lack of an eye is disconcerting.”

“So I did you a favour by killing you?”

“Ha!” Gaxar barked out his laughter. “Now it’s my turn to kill you, Konrad. But

when you die, you die forever!”

“What about the shield?” said Konrad.

“What?” asked Gaxar. “The shield?”

“Where does that shield come from?”

For a moment, Gaxar gazed down at the battered shield he held. “How should I

know?” he growled. “Let us fight!”

“Why?”

“Why? Why! Because I want to kill you, Konrad, that’s why that’s why! I now

possess Fenbrod’s brutal strength, and J still have my own magical skills. I intend to

destroy you. No one kills me and gets away with it!” Gaxar barked out his rodent

laughter once more.

Perhaps the bodyguard’s memories had been obliterated when the grey seer had

claimed his fur and bones, and so Gaxar knew nothing of the shield. But he must

have known something of Elyssa, because she had been in the underground chamber

with the skaven sorcerer, watching as Litzenreich and Ustnar were crucified— and

Skullface had also been there.

Konrad shrugged and stepped backwards.

“You’ve got to fight! Don’t you want to save your Emperor?”

“My Emperor? Why should I care what happens to him?”

134

“I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him!” yelled Gaxar, and he moved threateningly towards

the figure to his right. Then he paused and spun around, his blade aimed at the second

identical shape. “So cunning, you humans, so very cunning.”

The twin figures were both wearing the clothes of a courtier, and both stood

without moving. Although not as rigid as the members of the Imperial guard who

were stationed throughout the palace, it was clear that Gaxar had them under his spell

and that they were unable to act of their own free will. But only one of them could

ever have had any volition; the other had always been a creation of the grey seer’s,

brought by him from Middenheim to the capital.

Captured by the skaven, the true Emperor was about to be replaced by his double,

a puppet of the ratmen. The exchange must have been intended for tonight. If Karl-

Franz were replaced by a servant of Chaos, the awesome consequences would be

unimaginable.

“Kill him,” said Konrad, feigning unconcern. He shrugged again.

“No,” said Gaxar. “You kill him! You choose, Konrad. Which one should live,

which one should die? One is the true Karl-Franz. You must decide which one— and

execute the other!”

“Why should I?”

“Because I am commanding you to!”

Gaxar’s fierce gaze seemed to burn through Konrad’s eyes and into his brain. He

tried to look away, but it was already too late. Gaxar had mesmerized him, and he felt

himself advancing reluctantly forward. He attempted to hold back, but to no avail,

and his right arm began to raise his sword. It was not he who was deciding which

Karl-Franz would die. Gaxar would ensure that the impostor lived, that the throne

was claimed by his own creation.

Above Gaxar was a frieze which showed the coronation of the first Emperor. It

caught Konrad’s attention because instead of Sigmar being crowned, there was a

skaven upon the throne—the Horned Rat himself…

And if Karl-Franz were murdered, it would be as if the last of Sigmar’s heirs had

died—assassinated by Konrad.

Konrad took another unwilling step forward, and the warp-blade rose even

higher.

Summoning all his inner reserves of energy, Konrad managed to utter two

syllables.

“Sigmar,” he whispered.

There was a sound in the distance, a rumble like far away guns. Perhaps the pirate

ship had broken through the boom across the Reik and was bombarding Altdorf

itself. Konrad felt the ground move, and he glanced down in time to see the marble

tiles beneath his feet splinter and crack. The entire world must have been in turmoil,

shaking the foundations upon which the Imperial capital and the palace itself were

built.

As he advanced, Konrad missed a step and almost slipped, perhaps because of the

earthquake, perhaps because Gaxar’s hypnotic control was beginning to fade. He

fought even harder, trying to resist the skaven’s malign influence, and he

135

concentrated on his own mental resources, upon the hidden depths he had so recently

discovered.

“Sigmar,” he prayed, once again, louder, and the word gave him enough strength

to shout: “Sigmar!”

There was a sudden flare of brilliant light far beyond, reflected through the circle

of stained glass, and Konrad raised his head in time to see twin streaks of lightning

flash across the sky, so bright that they totally eclipsed Morrslieb’s macabre glow.

A thunderous roar came from high above the palace. The thunderbolts must have

struck the pinnacle, which was built from granite blocks brought from Black Fire

Pass, and the whole of the great building shook once more. This time, a jagged crack

appeared down the side of the chamber, ripping apart the wall.

Gaxar gazed anxiously upwards, surrendering his preternatural hold over

Konrad’s will.

Then, without warning, the ceiling was torn asunder by the untold weight of a

gigantic block of falling masonry.

Konrad leapt back, Gaxar sprang aside, and the massive chunk of rock landed

between them, spraying shards of stone throughout the chamber.

The hall was filled with clouds of dust, but everything was abruptly silent. There

was no sign of the Emperor, or of the impostor, whichever was which. And, as the

dirt and debris settled, Konrad observed what it was that had crashed down into

Sigmar’s mausoleum: it was the replica of Ghal-maraz which had topped the palace

spire. Thrice the size of a man, the stone warhammer had been dislodged by the

lightning and plummeted straight down into the central chamber of this wing of the

palace. There was a vast hole in the ceiling, but only the sky and the stars were

visible. Morrslieb had been banished from the heavens. All the candles were properly

alight now, flickering in the wind which blew through the cavity in the roof.

On the ancient frieze, Sigmar had been restored to his rightful place on the

Imperial throne as the first Emperor.

Hearing another sound, Konrad looked around. The force of the titanic impact

had knocked over the Imperial guardsman who had been on duty in the chamber, and

now he was rising to his feet—and he hurtled towards Konrad, his sword raised to

attack.

Time had been restored, the guard’s heart had begun to beat once more, but it was

a mutant heart. He was still a slave of damnation, a depraved worshipper of the lord

of hedonism.

Konrad’s warpblade sliced through the creature’s throat, half-severing his head.

Blood spurted, the beast screamed—and died.

Turning, Konrad noticed that one of the two figures Gaxar had magically

ensnared was still standing upright, gazing around in bewilderment. The other had

been squashed beneath the huge granite carving, and all that remained was a mess of

festering and decayed flesh. Sigmar’s legendary warhammer had claimed yet another

victim. The impostor was a corpse once more.

Gaxar had been rendered immobile for several seconds, as though stunned by

what had happened. Konrad ran to put himself between Karl-Franz and the skaven.

136

“I am,” said the Emperor hesitantly. “I am…” He shook his head, then staggered

slightly.

There came the sound of many footsteps, all running towards the chamber.

Several more members of the Imperial guard rushed into the hall. Once the

Emperor’s most loyal servants, now they were devoid of all trace of humanity. Their

bull-heads roared out their challenge.

Konrad glanced at Gaxar, but there was no time to slay the grey skaven—to slay

him again—before the guards were on him. He stepped in front of the Emperor. He

had to defend Karl-Franz at all costs. That was his mission, why Sigmar had brought

him here. His whole life had been a prelude to this moment.

He fought, his new blade thrusting out to claim another victim, then slashing up

and across to kill yet one more. The chamber echoed to the sound of clashing steel, to

the screams of the dying mutants. Konrad lost himself in combat, yelling his own

defiant warcries as loudly as his enemies vented their insane bloodlust—and howled

their death screams as their inhuman blood was mercilessly shed.

The hall filled with more figures, but that did not matter. Konrad was already

outnumbered. He could only die but once, whether attacked by a dozen feral foes or a

hundred.

Then he saw a black blade slice through the air, and he knew he was not alone.

Wolf was with him. The odds had been halved, and Konrad fought with renewed

vigour. A thunderbolt flashed, a burst of bright flames illuminated the hall, and

Litzenreich had joined in the battle.

The thunderous sound of racing hooves echoed through the palace, and Konrad

looked towards the next chamber, wondering whether a whole legion of the damned

had arrived as reinforcements. But then a rider charged into the hall—a Templar of

Sigmar, his red lance impaling one of the mutated Imperial guard.

More of the mounted troops arrived in Sigmar’s sepulchre and entered the fray.

These were the cavalry who had been ensnared by frozen time in the palace

courtyard. Their helmets were crested by twin horns—but the horns of their victims

grew from their deformed skulls, and they were slaughtered like the beasts they truly

were.

Gaxar had been lurking in the corner, hoping to seize the moment when he could

pounce upon Karl-Franz. But now he recognized that the odds were too great, and he

spun around.

A hole appeared in the floor near his feet, a tunnel which had opened up at his

sorcerous command, and he stepped towards it, about to escape.

“Gaxar!” Konrad commanded, and the skaven hesitated.

The grey seer turned, or perhaps it was the warrior part of him which could not be

denied. Silver Eye’s body must still have retained his fighting instincts. A challenge

could not be refused.

The skaven grinned, baring his metal teeth, and he licked at his jowls. Konrad

remembered the rasping feel of Silver Eye’s tongue when it had licked at his blood,

tasting the warpstone which coursed through his veins. Gaxar—if it were Gaxar who

was in control of the rat shape—raised his jagged sword, lifted the enigmatic shield,

and launched himself at Konrad.

137

They fought, trading blow for blow. Gaxar had the advantage, because he was

protected by the triangular shield. But it was the skaven who was on the defensive,

realizing that he was trapped. Even if he managed to defeat Konrad, there were

plenty more warriors within the ruined chamber that he would have to destroy, and

they would not attack him singly. Many of the knights had dismounted to form a

protective phalanx around the Emperor, and from the corner of his eye Konrad could

see both Wolf and Litzenreich watching the deadly duel. Neither of them would

allow the grey seer to escape alive—although Litzenreich would probably be willing

to consider some kind of deal if it meant he could get his hands on a cache of

warpstone.

Konrad’s new blade clashed against Gaxar’s hooked sword. The warpblade was

part skaven, and it was time it claimed skaven blood. The sword slashed through

brown fur, and blood dripped onto the dust which covered the marble floor of the

palace. Gaxar screeched in pain, and Konrad thrust forward again. He stabbed the

point of his weapon into Gaxar’s chest, then sliced the edge of the blade across the

skaven’s sword arm. There was more blood, more screams. Gaxar fought more

wildly, throwing himself forward, leaving himself wide open to counter-attack. There

was even more blood, more screams.

Gaxar was becoming more desperate, and suddenly he flung his shield at Konrad,

spun around, and sprinted for the exit he had created. No skaven could ever outrun a

man, and Konrad caught up with the grey seer before he could make his escape. He

grabbed hold of the creature’s tail, yanking him backwards.

Gaxar howled, more in anger than in pain. He twisted around, hacked through his

own tail to release himself, then ran on. Konrad fell back for a moment, and Gaxar

had almost reached the hole in the ground when Konrad drove his sword between

two plates of armour and into the rat-thing’s back. The skaven froze for an instant,

and Konrad withdrew his sword. Then Gaxar slowly turned, and blood was pouring

from his chest as well as his back.

He raised his sword, as if to strike, but the weapon dropped from his paw. He

opened his mouth as if to speak, but no sound came. He fell, and he was dead before

he hit the ground. The dark opening which his magic had caused to appear vanished

simultaneously.

Konrad looked down at his warpblade’s victim. He raised his sword, examining

the blood. The weapon gleamed in the candlelight, the skaven gore emphasizing all

the different layers of metal, glinting from all the different hues.

“Gaxar,” Konrad told Wolf and Litzenreich, nodding to the skaven’s corpse. He

looked past them. “Ustnar?” he asked.

“Dead,” said Wolf. His helmet was gone, and there were fresh cuts across his

face; his armour was dented and scored, gouged open in several places.

Litzenreich had fared no better. His clothes were ripped, some of his hair and

beard appeared to have been burned, and his face was scorched and blistered. His

staff had been blackened by fire, the lower end turned to charcoal by some intense

heat.

“Who are you?”

The three of them looked towards the Emperor, who had pushed himself between

two of the knights.

138

“This is Konrad,” said Wolf. “This is Litzenreich. My name is… Wolf.” He

hesitated, but did not give his full identity.

“I have few memories of what happened to me,” said Karl-Franz. “But I realize

that I owe you all my life.” He glanced over to where the rotting corpse of his

doppelganger lay crushed beneath the replica of Skull-splitter. “To you in particular,

I believe,” he added, addressing Konrad. He was speaking slowly as if in a foreign

language. “I must rest. But you will be rewarded, all of you. I will not forget.” He

turned and was helped away by two of the templars.

“He’ll forget,” said Wolf, watching the Emperor leave the ruined chamber. The

rest of the cavalry departed, leading their horses—and leaving the dead and the

damned beastmen behind.

The only thing which remained intact was the stone plinth in the exact centre of

the vast room, and upon it was the velvet cushion and the ivory handle of Sigmar’s

knife.

“We’ve saved the Emperor,” said Konrad, wearily. “We’ve saved the Empire.

Wasn’t that what we were supposed to do?”

“Was it? I knew we came here for something.” Wolf grinned and wiped his face

with the back of his hand, smearing sweat and blood across his tattooed features. His

sword was in his hand, dripping with blood and gore.

Konrad knelt down to study the triangular shield, examining it as closely as

possible without touching it. It was old and dented, streaked with rust where the

black paint had flaked away. The golden emblem was almost intact, however, and

was identical to the crest which had been on the arrows, the bow, the quiver which

Elyssa had given him so long ago.

“An elf?” asked Konrad. “Was this the elf’s shield?”

Wolf shrugged, making it clear that he did not wish to discuss the time an elf had

defeated him, then spared his life.

Had all the weapons belonged to Elyssa’s true father, who was an elf? And where

had Silver Eye scavenged the shield?

Litzenreich had been gazing at Gaxar’s body, walking all around him, tapping the

floor with his charred staff. He said something, which was too low for Konrad to

hear, and he kept muttering to himself. Then when the floor opened up, Konrad

realized that he had been casting a spell.

There was a dark hole in the ground, in exactly the same position as the one

which Gaxar had created. Litzenreich peered down, and Wolf walked across and did

likewise.

It was almost dawn, Konrad realized. The whole of the night had been stolen by

Chaos.

In the growing light, Konrad could see that there were steps leading down from

the entrance which Litzenreich had conjured. It must have been some secret passage

beneath the palace.

“Shall we go?” said Litzenreich, staring into the depths of the darkness.

He must have believed there were more skaven down there, and where the

ratbeasts dwelled there would be warpstone—and warpstone was the source of

magic.

139

Wolf nodded, and Konrad wondered why he should want to descend into the

maze of passages beneath the city. Perhaps because that was where there was Chaos

infection, which meant Wolf would have more enemies to fight.

The two of them looked at Konrad. The last thing he wished to do was return to

the treacherous labyrinths which lay under Altdorf; but he knew that he must venture

into the subterranean world once again.

Elyssa was there.

And so was Skullface.

Konrad picked up the black shield, slipping his left arm through the handle and

holding the grip in his fist. Like his new sword, it was as if the shield had been made

for him.

Wolf seized one of the large candles and led the way down; Litzenreich took

another and joined him. Konrad also drew one of the scented candles from its sconce,

then gazed upwards, seeing the first trace of blue as night was banished from the sky.

Aware that he would never see daylight again, or ever return from the land

beneath the world, Konrad took his final breath of surface air then followed the other

two down into what he knew must become his grave.

140

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The tunnels were like those beneath Middenheim, hewn from solid rock. Like those

under the City of the White Wolf, they must have been constructed by dwarf

engineers. Long before the rise of humanity the Old World had been inhabited by the

dwarfs—and before that by the elves. The dwarfs had built tunnels across what was

now the Empire, linking many of their towns and cities. Their abandoned centres of

habitation had been taken over by the younger human race, and the network of

passages still existed.

The humans had taken over the cities, but the tunnels now belonged to the

skaven…

And that was what was so familiar to Konrad: the stench of the mutated rodents

seemed to have saturated the narrow tunnel through which the three humans

ventured. The ratbeasts could smell the warpstone which had become a part of

Konrad, but he could also smell them.

More than any other creature of Chaos, Konrad hated the skaven. His hatred went

back further than the time of his imprisonment by Gaxar. Maybe it was connected

with the way that the skaven were so like humans, yet so radically different. They

were intelligent, well organized, but they appeared almost like a parody of humanity.

Wolf hated every manifestation of Chaos with equal ferocity. To him, the skaven

were no worse than any other of the hellspawned legions. They were vermin to be

eradicated like all other mutants. As for Litzenreich, his relationship with them was

almost symbiotic. He needed the skaven, because it was they who refined

warpstone—and Litzenreich needed warpstone to pursue what he called his

“researches.”

Konrad felt very nervous knowing that there were skaven about. He was behind

the other two and could see nothing ahead as they pressed on through the maze of

dark damp passages. Wolf was leading the way, and they were going further and

further down with every step, but where was Wolf leading them?

It was not only skaven who dwelled deep below Altdorf and who used these

tunnels, because every so often they came across a glowing lantern. The skaven

needed no such illumination, so what other creatures inhabited these depths?

Whatever they were, Konrad was far less concerned about them than the treacherous

ratmen.

Time passed, they went deeper, and he was beginning to feel less uneasy. Why

had Gaxar been alone? Could it be that there were no other skaven beneath Altdorf,

that they had all departed the city? Some other beings had taken over their nesting

sites, and that was why the rat-things had not attacked.

But at that very moment they did attack…

141

Suddenly from ahead there came the repulsive sound of skaven screeches, of

metal upon metal as Wolf’s sword repelled his abominable assailants. Konrad tried to

push forward, but Litzenreich was in the way, and the wizard was reluctant to

advance into danger. Konrad forced himself past and into the wide cavern which

abruptly opened up in front of him. The cave was low but wide, and lit by a few

lanterns hanging from the walls. Konrad almost wished that there was no light,

because then he would not have seen what confronted him: the packed ranks of

scores and scores of skaven, all of whom must have been waiting patiently for the

unwary humans to emerge from the darkness.

Konrad joined Wolf, and together they fought against the flowing tide of mutated

rats, their blades scything through the enemy, chopping them down, hacking them

apart. They were both soon splattered with skaven gore; but for every creature that

they slew, another took its place. All of the enemy were warrior rats, the size of men,

and armed with their usual jagged swords and hooked lances. But when their

weapons were lost, they also fought with teeth and claws. Despite his shield, Konrad

was soon bleeding from a number of wounds.

Instead of standing his ground in the tunnel from which they had emerged, Wolf

began advancing through the ranks of skaven, hacking a route through the multitude

of malevolent creatures. There was another passage ahead, on the far side of the

cavern, and that was where he seemed to be heading. Konrad followed, back to back

with Wolf, each defending one another, blades slicing and slashing.

Litzenreich had been searching the skaven corpses, hunting for any which carried

warpstone. But none of the living creatures attacked him. They concentrated all their

attention on Konrad and Wolf. Konrad guessed that the wizard was protecting

himself with some kind of spell. Now that he had found a source of warpstone, he no

longer needed his allies.

But then Litzenreich stood up, pointed with his staff, and a bright streak of light

flashed across the cavern. One of the skaven which had been about to hack at Konrad

suddenly burst into flames, screaming hideously as it burned alive. The wizard began

to make his way through the cave, immolating every skaven who dared to get in his

way.

Wolf carved a gory path through the ratmen, his sword never still. He was

shouting out some atavistic warcry as he fought, and finally he and Konrad made it to

the other side of the cave. Litzenreich joined them a few seconds later. Dozens and

dozens of the skaven lay dead or dying, burned or burning, but there were far more

within the chamber. Reinforcements poured from the tunnel by which the three

humans had entered the grotto.

The skaven horde attacked with renewed vigour. Wolf pushed the other two past

him into the tunnel and then took up position at the end, blocking the entrance with

his body and his sword.

“Go!” he shouted to Konrad, and Konrad hardly understood because his voice

sounded so strange.

Then he noticed Wolf’s face.

It had begun to change, for the brow to deepen and the jaw to lengthen, for the

white hair of his scalp and beard to spread over all his features, while his sharpened

teeth became longer, like fangs. He had appeared this way when the goblins had

142

taken him prisoner, although at the time Konrad had thought his eyes must have

deceived him.

This was how Wolf had been tainted by Chaos.

He was taking on the likeness of the animal for which he was named. He was

becoming were…

His whole shape was altering, not only his face. He bent lower, becoming more

stretched, and the armour split as his wolfish body burst through the black metal.

“Go!”

And now the word was indecipherable. It was an animal roar, but Konrad knew

what it must mean.

No longer human, the mercenary had been transformed into a huge white wolf.

The armour was gone, and all that remained was the chain around his neck—the

chain which had once held Wolf a prisoner, and which he wore to remind himself

that he would never be captured again. The black sword lay on the ground. Wolves

did not need weapons. They had powerful jaws which could snap through the throat

of a skaven in a moment, claws which could rip out foul rat entrails in an instant.

“This way,” Litzenreich ordered.

He had already started down the second passage. Konrad hesitated, but then

obeyed and followed the dark wizard. As in the hall above, when Wolf had been

called to battle by an unseen adversary, there was nothing that Konrad could do. The

creature who had once been Wolf needed no human help to destroy every skaven

which attempted to get past. The tunnel was filled with the noise of lupine roars, of

rodent screams.

There were several intersections which they passed, and at first Litzenreich had

no hesitation in his choice of direction, but after a while he advanced more slowly.

The sounds of feral combat echoed through the maze of tunnels, and now it was

not only the skaven which yelled in agony. Wolf’s challenging growls were

punctuated with howls of torment.

He was totally outnumbered, and he must inevitably be overwhelmed. He had

chosen his position as rearguard in order that Konrad could go on, and so Konrad

must not betray his comrade by faltering now.

Instead it was Litzenreich who halted.

“Keep on in this direction,” he said, and his voice was faint.

“What will I find?”

The sorcerer shook his head. “I must go back,” he said, almost whispering.

In the dim light Konrad noticed his face. It had suddenly become old, very old.

Litzenreich had appeared middle-aged, but now his true age was revealed. Above his

white beard, his face was deeply creased; his left hand was withered and gnarled; and

his back was bent, his whole body hunched. He had become the oldest human that

Konrad had ever seen.

“I deserted Wolf once,” Litzenreich continued, his breath coming in short bursts.

“I left him to die. Perhaps I can make amends if we die together. And together maybe

we can hold back the skaven a little longer—so that you can go on.”

“But why?” Konrad demanded. “Go on where?”

143

The ancient wizard seemed not to hear. He made his way back along the passage,

returning towards the sounds of wild animals locked in deadly combat, his crooked

shape vanishing into the shadows.

Litzenreich was an old man, Wolf was a canine beast. And they were both about

to die in order that Konrad could continue down through the black tunnel which lay

ahead.

Konrad stood without moving for a while, unwilling to advance into the unknown

darkness. His doomed companions both seemed to know far more than he did about

why he was here and what lay ahead.

He made up his mind—and turned and ran back. He and Wolf had been comrades

for so long that he could not abandon him, and Litzenreich had become an ally. They

would all survive together, or not at all.

He sprinted through the tunnels, led by the sounds of desperate combat, finally

seeing a faint glow of light in the tunnel ahead. The air reeked of the pungent odour

of skaven blood.

When he reached the cavern, he halted as he gazed at the scene of carnage.

Swarms of skaven had been massacred, but there were still as many of them armed

and fighting. Wolf was in their midst, more dead than alive. Instead of a white wolf,

he was now red, every inch of his fur matted with blood—and much of it must have

been his own. He was bleeding from a hundred wounds, but still he fought, his jaws

snapping, his claws slashing. At any moment he would be defeated, drowned by the

pestilential tide of skaven which flowed towards him, screeching and hacking.

Litzenreich was also there, standing near the end of the tunnel, again ignored as if

he were no threat.

This would be the final battle, Konrad knew. There could be no escape from the

subterranean chamber. But what better way was there to die than with a sword in

one’s hand, fighting with one’s comrades against the most hated adversary of all?

He started to advance, but then suddenly halted when Litzenreich spun around,

gazing at him.

The wizard thrust his staff at Konrad, gesturing for him to go back, and then he

drove the end of his staff upwards, and a single bolt of white lighting flashed. A

moment later came a tremendous crack, the sound of massive rocks being split

asunder. Then the whole roof of the cave collapsed. Countless tons of rock crashed

down, crushing all of those beneath—both skaven, human and once human.

There was no way that Litzenreich or Wolf could have survived.

They had died so that Konrad could continue, and so all he could do was turn and

go on.

He headed deeper into the darkness and towards his nemesis.

Having passed beyond the point where Litzenreich had turned back, Konrad

instinctively took the left fork when the tunnel branched into two. At the next dark

junction he went right, again aware that this was the direction which he must take,

although still unsure of what his destination would be. It was almost like seeing, as if

his lost talent of foresight had returned to guide his direction.

144

With the mysterious shield in one hand, his new blade in the other, Konrad

advanced deeper into the gloom, his route illuminated by the flickering lanterns, their

reflections beckoning him onwards.

All was totally silent. There could be no clash of weapons far behind, no

agonized screams of death. The exit from the cavern had been totally blocked by

fallen rocks, and no ravening rodent horde would pursue him—for a while, at least.

But this underworld was the skaven domain, and they would know every

labyrinthine route beneath the Imperial capital. Konrad would not be alone for very

long, and he listened for the distant echo of his verminous foes.

The only sounds were of his own boots treading the cold stone floor, of the shield

occasionally brushing against the narrow sides of the damp passage. Konrad’s pulse

had slowed since the ferocious battle across the cave, but he could still feel the blood

race through his veins; he imagined that he could hear his own heart pounding, that

the sound was like an alarm to the enemies who lurked ahead.

Perhaps the ratbeasts had been joined by swarms of their hideous allies. Every

step which he took brought him closer to another ambush, and he expected to be

attacked every second; but every step led to another, and then another, and there was

still no sign of any skaven. And each step took Konrad deeper beneath the city,

further away from the surface.

It was almost as if he were no longer in command of his own body, that even had

he wished to halt and turn back he could not have done so. This was where he was

destined to be, what he was fated to do, and he must live out the role which had been

assigned to him—and for which Wolf and Litzenreich had laid down their own lives.

He reached another junction, and he immediately went to the left, and he saw a

distant light ahead; but this was not one of the oil lamps which he had kept passing. It

was a single line of natural light, its intensity unwavering; and it was at ground level,

like the light which spilled out from beneath a doorway.

He moved forward cautiously. There was indeed a door directly ahead, he

realized. It seemed as if it led out of the maze of tunnels, because daylight was visible

beneath. But that was impossible; he was far too deep underground.

Konrad halted at the end of the passage, a sword’s length from the wooden door.

The door seemed familiar, as if he should recognize it. His heartbeat began to

increase once more, cold sweat to break out again on his hot flesh. He looked around,

staring over his shoulder into the darkness. The narrow tunnel was still absolutely

silent, and yet he knew that he was no longer alone. There was something ahead,

something waiting for him beyond the door.

Something or someone.

It would have been so simple to open the door, but he was terrified of what he

might discover within.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. His face was

sticky with the blood from his own wounds and the streaks of gore from the skaven

he had slain.

Konrad had no idea how long he stood in the silent darkness, his sword poised to

strike whatever might appear in front of him when the door opened. But the door

would not open, not unless he were the one to do it.

145

He touched the tip of his warpblade against one of the wooden planks, stretched

out his arm and pushed the door open, then leapt through, poised to defend himself

from whatever was waiting to attack.

As he had suspected, he did not find himself outside.

He was inside—inside Adolf Brandenheimer’s tavern!

The door slammed shut behind Konrad, trapping him in the past, capturing him

within the tavern where he had slaved for most of his life.

This was all an illusion, a vision of the past designed to ensnare him. The inn had

burned down the day that the Chaos swarms had totally annihilated the village.

The place was devoid of people, but every detail of the building was accurate: the

fire in the hearth, the straw upon the dirt floor, the roughly hewn tables and benches,

the blackened thatch ceiling. Konrad could see that the rest of the village was visible

through the windows. A boar was roasting over the fire, pewter tankards stood on the

table in front of the barrels of ale. At any moment Brandenheimer would be yelling at

Konrad to turn the spit or to fill the beer steins.

But the landlord was long dead. Konrad had watched as Brandenheimer’s head

had been used as the ball in a vicious game which the triumphant mutants had played

after the slaughter.

None of this was real.

Then Konrad’s attention was caught by something which did not belong in the

tavern, and he moved for the first time, slowly walking towards the table upon which

the misplaced object lay.

It was an oval mirror; the frame and back and handle were silver, studded with

jewels.

It had been Elyssa’s mirror.

It was the mirror in which Konrad had first seen his own image, first seen that his

eyes were of different colours, and first seen so much more…

This must also have been an enchantment, but he found himself shrugging the

shield from his left arm, setting it down on the table, picking up the mirror, not

wanting to look into the glass, but unable to prevent himself from so doing, studying

his reflection in the glass, bearded and bloody, and remembering that he had seen

himself like this before—exactly like this.

Then his face seemed to dissolve, replaced by that of someone else, someone

much younger but whose eyes were also of different colours: one green, one gold.

And Konrad realized that he was staring at himself as he had once been, seeing

his younger self on the day that he had first gazed into a mirror—this very mirror.

He sensed someone behind him and he spun around.

It was Skullface!

He was sitting at one of the tables, quaffing a tankard of ale.

“A drink?” he offered, sliding another stein towards Konrad. “You look as though

you need one.”

Konrad sprang forward, his blood-streaked blade aimed at the seated figure.

Skullface did not move. His pale figure was still preternaturally thin, his cadaverous

face and head completely without hair. He was clad in the outfit of a courtier: green

146

cloak, embroidered tunic, fancy breeches, shiny boots; but he seemed to have no

weapon, no elaborately hilted rapier at his hip.

He glanced down at the tip of the sword which was poised a few inches from his

torso, and he sipped at his ale.

“Even when I was human I had no heart,” he said, and he smiled ironically.

There could be no doubting what he meant. He was referring to the time when

Konrad had shot an arrow into his chest—and drawn not even a drop of blood.

Konrad had been waiting for this moment so long, for the time when he had a

chance to kill Skullface. But how could he slay an immortal?

He had believed that he would be terrified of Skullface, but he felt very calm. So

much had happened in the years since he had first encountered the gaunt figure which

stepped unharmed from the inferno of the Kastring manor house.

Konrad had seen far stranger deeds, witnessed even more unbelievable events.

They stared at each other, and the inhuman’s unblinking gaze seemed very

familiar. Pupil and iris were both jet black; his eyes were exactly like those of Elyssa.

“Where’s Elyssa?” Konrad asked. “What have you done to her? If you’ve harmed

her…”

“I would never harm my own daughter.”

“Your daughter!”

“I told you—I used to be human. Why shouldn’t I have a daughter?”

“But…” Konrad shook his head. His mind was a maelstrom of conflicting

thoughts and memories, ideas and suspicions.

He had come to believe every part of his life was connected, that all the people he

had ever encountered were linked by some invisible web which held him inextricably

trapped. And it was Skullface who had spun the intricate network of threads in which

Konrad had been entangled for so long.

He was the spider drawing him towards the centre of his lethal web, and here was

his lair.

“Put down your sword, Konrad,” said Skullface. “You can’t kill me with steel,

not even with warpdust welded into the blade.”

Konrad continued to stare at the spectral figure who had haunted his life for so

long.

“I know everything,” replied Skullface, answering the unasked question. “Drink,”

he added, his bony fingers pushing the tankard towards Konrad again.

Konrad kept his sword levelled at his eternal enemy, but he put the mirror down

on the table and reached for the ale with his left hand. He raised the tankard to his

lips, sniffing at the liquid, then tasting it.

“Who are you?” he asked, and he drank deeply.

“Elyssa’s father.”

“Who are you?” Konrad repeated. “What debased Chaos god do you serve?

Whoever it is, your evil plan did not succeed. Karl-Franz lives, he’s still the Emperor.

The skaven plot failed.”

“The skaven!” Skullface laughed without humour. He took another mouthful of

beer and looked up at Konrad again. “The Emperor is of little consequence, Konrad.

147

You are far more important to the future of the Empire. That is why you have to die.

And I’ve tried to bring about your death several times.”

“The village?” said Konrad.

“It was wiped out so you would be killed. Then the mine.” Skullface shrugged, a

gesture which seemed almost human. “A few other times. You are very resilient.

That is why you were brought here, beneath Altdorf, so that you could be destroyed.

The plot against the Emperor was merely a ruse to ensure your destruction. But

perhaps I shouldn’t have left it to the skaven to finish you off.”

Konrad shook his head in total disbelief as he tried to absorb what he had been

told. He was more important than the Emperor…?

“They would have succeeded,” Skullface added, “if it weren’t for those other

two, the wizard and the mercenary. They sacrificed themselves so that you could

survive. Only humans willingly surrender their lives for the sake of one of their

own.” He sipped at his beer. “It makes me almost proud that I used to be one of your

kind.”

“You could never have been one of my kind,” said Konrad, defiantly.

“But I was, until I became…” He broke off.

“Became what?” Konrad demanded.

Skullface still seemed more human than not. He showed no real signs of

mutation, and he did not wear the insignia of any of the Chaos powers. He was one of

the damned, and his master had rewarded him with the skills to walk through fire, to

survive what would be a fatal wound to any other living creature. Far more than a

mere benighted servant, Skullface must have been a champion of one of the

malevolent deities.

“Are you going to kill me?” Konrad asked, when there was no reply.

“I could have killed you in your village had I wished,” replied Skullface, “but I

do not kill.”

“No—you get others to do that for you.”

The skeletal figure raised his tankard in acknowledgment of Konrad’s perception.

And Konrad knew then which of the Chaos lords Skullface served.

There was only one who made an art of deceit and treachery, who manipulated

every other being for its own debased purposes. Sometimes he was known as the

Changer of the Ways, or else as the Great Conspirator; others referred to him as the

Architect of Fate or Master of Fortune.

“Tzeentch!” hissed Konrad.

“You could also serve my master, Konrad,” said Skullface.

“What?”

He was still standing over the inhuman, his new blade aimed at the champion’s

chest.

“You have a great part to play in the future of the Empire, of the Old World. Why

not play that role for your own benefit? There is no need for us to be enemies,

Konrad, not when we can be allies.”

“What kind of trick is this?”

“A trick? Me?” Skullface laughed. He looked past Konrad, towards the triangular

shield. “I thought that would interest you.”

148

Konrad had believed that the shield originally belonged to an elf, and that the

same elf was Elyssa’s real father. But now he was sure that Skullface was telling the

truth; it was he who was Elyssa’s father.

Their eyes were the same, and she must have inherited her magical skills from

him.

“Why should it interest me?” asked Konrad.

“The crest. It was the same as the one on the arrow you fired at me. That’s why I

gave the shield to Gaxar’s bodyguard, so you would see it, pursue it.”

“You gave the shield to him? And where did you get it?”

“From your father.”

“What?”

Konrad stared deep into Skullface’s black eyes. Totally confused, he glanced

down for a moment, and his eyes focused on the oval mirror.

Skullface should have been reflected in the glass, but instead the image revealed

another figure seated at the table.

Elyssa!

Skullface was gone. Elyssa was sitting in his place. Perhaps he had never been

there, and the girl had disguised herself as her father—or possibly the Champion of

Tzeentch was now masking his appearance with the image of his daughter.

Elyssa’s jet black hair hung to her waist, and she wore a woollen dress, white and

unadorned. She had aged since Konrad knew her, and her face stared back at him

with a malevolent glare. It was a look he had seen before, and he remembered what

his talent had foreseen that same long ago time: how Elyssa would become changed,

and how she would one day cause his death.

This was that day.

They gazed at each other, and he could see himself reflected in her jet black eyes.

“I gave you your name,” she said. “I gave you everything. I made you, Konrad.”

“And I loved you,” he replied.

Elyssa was a creature of Chaos, possibly she always had been, and perhaps it was

true that the only way to fight Chaos was with Chaos.

He gripped the hilt of his sword even tighter.

This was no longer Elyssa, he told himself. This was not the girl he had loved,

not the girl who he still loved.

He swung the sword, arcing the blade towards her neck, and he closed his eyes an

instant before the metal sliced through the girl’s flesh, decapitating her.

“We shall meet again, Konrad,” said a soft voice—a voice Konrad was not sure

whether he truly heard or only imagined, a voice which could have been that of

Elyssa or Skullface.

He gazed at the severed head which lay upon the ground, trying to ignore the

blood mingling with the dirt. Elyssa’s eyes were open and they seemed to be staring

directly up at Konrad, but there was no hatred in her expression. She appeared young

again, her features relaxed and peaceful. Perhaps in death she had been saved, her

soul redeemed.

149

Konrad closed his eyes for another moment and said a silent prayer. This was

something else which he remembered from that same momentous day over half a

decade ago, a future memory of this very event; he had imagined Elyssa being dead.

He had only succeeded in reaching this far because of the power within his new

sword, but warpsteel was not sufficient to slay a champion of Chaos.

Although Elyssa may have died, Skullface had not.

The tavern began to dissolve, the deception over. The walls and floor and ceiling

once more became part of the underground cave which they always had been.

Konrad picked up the triangular shield, sliding his left arm through the handle,

gripping it with his fist. Already it felt a part of him, as once had the bow and the

arrows which Elyssa first gave him.

All had originally belonged to an elf—and was that elf really his own father…?

There was no reason why Skullface should have been telling the truth; it was in

his nature to lie.

As the hallucination faded, Konrad realized that he had conquered the destiny

which had condemned him to death.

It was Elyssa who had died. Her severed head and lifeless corpse lay on the floor

of the tunnel, the only evidence of Skull-face’s duplicity.

There could be no such thing as fate. Konrad’s future lay entirely within himself,

with his own mind and in his own hands.

He gazed ahead, and saw countless pairs of red feral eyes staring back at him

through the darkness.

He was the master of his own life, nothing was pre-ordained—but he had many

other battles to fight, other opponents to kill, other conquests to make.

Konrad kissed the crosspiece of his warblade, raised the weapon in a silent tribute

to Sigmar, and then advanced along the tunnel and into the midst of his waiting

enemies.

His warpsword hacked through their bestial shapes.

The shield which may have been his father’s fended off their deadly blows.

And Konrad fought his way through the benighted swarms of Chaos, up and

beyond and towards the light.

150

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

David Ferring was born on a small island called Britain, from which he escaped by

running away to sea. His first writing job was typing out passenger menus, but he

soon began making up imaginary dishes. Critical reaction to his early literary work

was mixed, and he jumped ship in New York. Claiming to read Japanese, he was

hired to translate the captions of scores of manga books. Instead, he made it all up.

He wrote his first Warhammer novel, Konrad, after he stopped producing gags for

nightclub crooners in Las Vegas; Shadowbreed was written when he gave up

devising plot-lines for an Australian soap opera; and Warblade was written one-

handedly in Hong Kong, after he broke his right arm during a stunt in a Jackie Chan

movie—and he’d only been on set to compose a few lines of dialogue for the

European villain…

Now living on his native isle, David Ferring is still making up things.

Scanning, formatting and basic

proofing by Undead.

151