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

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

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

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

The events of this book took place during a time of great strife and upheaval in the lands known as the Empire. Following the death of Emperor Mandred at the hands of inhuman assassins, the states of the Empire could not elect a new ruler, and war broke out between several Imperial provinces. This continued for several hundred years, and the period in which the following events took place is known as the Time of Three Emperors, when three of the provincial elector counts had declared themselves rightful Emperor – Stirland, Talabecland and the city state of Middenheim. Assailed from outside and divided within, the Empire was all but shattered, the once united states now operating as separate nations. Suspicion and politicking were the rule of the day in the Imperial courts, while the people tried to eke out a living amidst the ruins of the former Empire. Anarchy prevailed, brigands roamed the wilds, vile beastmen stalked the forest roads and the once cosmopolitan people of the Empire became introverted and parochial. The great horde of the orc warlord Gorbad Ironclaw had destroyed the state of Solland and was overrunning the Reikland, fertile heartland of the former Empire.

At this time, political power could only be measured in military power, and a count with the backing of other counts and the people of the former Empire could still make a strong claim for the Emperor’s throne. To this end, much blood was spilt and gold expended to reclaim ancient artefacts, uncover lost prophecies and seek favour with the elder races of the world in vain attempts to legitimise a claimant’s grip on power.

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER ONE

CHALLENGE

Fjaergardhold, Norsca, Early spring 1711

The roar of Norse voices rose to a deafening crescendo and shook the heavy pine rafters of the hall, sending motes of dust drifting through the red light of the cooking fires. Three rows of tables and benches stretched up the long hall and met with the chieftain’s table that crossed at their head in front of the firepit.

The flamelight danced off Torvig Half-Ear’s axe blade as he swung it in wide arcs around his head and leaped over the head table. Kurt Sutenmjar, Chosen of the Fjaergard, stood his ground, his empty fingers flexing as Torvig leapt over a bench towards him, scattering the assembled Norse men and women as they ducked and dived out of his way. Kurt was relaxed, almost disinterested, as he watched the veteran warrior bounding towards him.

‘Die, wastrel!’ Torvig bellowed, his battered features twisted with rage, his long blond hair trailing in warrior tresses behind him, revealing the ragged remnants of his left ear, savaged by hounds when he was child.

As Torvig lifted his axe above his head to strike, Kurt took a step forwards and his arms shot out with a speed that was at odds with his heavy build and layers of armour. His gauntleted fists closed around the axe haft, stopping it instantly, the jarring resistance causing Torvig to stumble and lose his grip. A kick to the midsection from Kurt completed Torvig’s tumble and his hands slipped from the axe as he dove down into the bare earth of the floor, kicking up more dust.

Torvig’s anger lurched to terror as Kurt loomed over him, lifting the huge axe in his right hand with inhuman strength. Kurt raised the axe high, his piercing eyes boring into Torvig, and then brought the blade down. Torvig flinched as the axe was imbedded into the long table with a loud thud, sending splinters flying into the air and spilling goblets and plates to the ground. Torvig sagged and breathed a sigh of relief. It was short-lived.

‘I need no axe,’ spat Kurt, his sneer contorting the scars and tattoos that marked his face, dark braids framing his once-handsome face. He reached down with his left hand and grabbed the front of his challenger’s woollen jerkin, lifting him up until the warrior’s toes were dragging a furrow in the earth. The Chosen heaved with his shoulders and sent Torvig flying across the hall, crashing into the round shields hung on the timber walls. The other Norse backed away quickly as Kurt stalked across the room to the firepit and snatched up a flaming brand. Torvig whimpered in horror as Kurt strode across the room with the log, its glowing tip trailing a wisp of smoke.

His eyes flicking left and right, Torvig could see no avenue of escape. In desperation, he snatched up one of the fallen shields and swung it with all his strength, the rim smashing into the Chosen’s jaw. Any normal man would have been flung from his feet, jaw smashed, unconscious. Kurt was knocked back a step, his foot sliding in the dirt to keep his balance. Torvig looked aghast at the slight dent left in the iron rim of the shield.

Kurt flung the brand back into the fire and tore off his left gauntlet to dab a finger at the trickle of blood that seeped from his split lower lip. Grinning, he revealed crimson-flecked teeth.

‘Back in my homeland, Half-Ear, you would be winner,’ Kurt told Torvig. ‘Duels there are fought to first blood.’

He began to laugh, a deep rolling sound, and soon the others were guffawing uproariously. Torvig snorted and then was caught up in the moment and laughed too. His chuckle ended abruptly when Kurt’s hand shot out, gripped him by the throat and snapped his neck with a simple twist.

‘But we’re not in the Empire!’ said Kurt with a laugh as silence descended on the long drinking hall. ‘We’re in the North!’

Grabbing Torvig’s leg in his other hand, Kurt lifted the corpse above his head and slowly turned on the spot, showing it to the assembled Fjaergard warriors.

‘I am the Chosen of the Gods!’ he said to them. ‘I may be Sutenmjar, the Southern Pup,’ he added with a glance at Hrolfgar, the chieftain who had given him the derogatory name, ‘but the mighty lords of the north chose me. They sent me from the south, to lead you in battle, to show you the way to glory and riches. I battled alongside you at Tungask, I slew the devil Sigmarite witch hunter for you and saved your distant kin.’

He tossed the body onto the table, cracking bowls and scattering drinking horns. Stepping onto a bench and then up to the pitted wood of the table itself, Kurt spread his arms wide in appeal. As he walked down the table the footfalls of his iron-shod boots boomed off the walls and the table creaked under the weight.

‘They have made me strong,’ he said to the trembling Norse. ‘Their power flows through me, their might dwells within my muscles and veins. They sent me a guide, my own shaman, to lead me to my true home,’ he said, pointing a finger at the scrawny figure of Jakob, who stood in the shadows, his glinting eyes watching everything, but his expression passionless.

‘I could kill all of you!’ said Kurt, his voice like a storm. ‘I could lay waste to Fjaergardhold, slaughter your women and children, and find another tribe! A tribe who would not plague me with their nagging, their doubts, their pointless challenges!’

He fell silent for a moment before dropping his voice to a harsh whisper, his glare passing over the shaken marauders.

‘But just as the gods chose me, so they too chose you,’ he continued. ‘They brought me to you, and gave me the sacred duty to protect you. I do not question their will or their scheme, and you should not either.’

Leaping from the table, he barged his way through the crowd to the double doors at the entrance to the hall. Flinging them open, the harsh white light of the northern spring sun surrounded him like a halo. Kurt gestured to the large trophy pole planted into the ground outside his low, round hut, where nearly a dozen heads already mouldered, a swarm of flies crawling over the decaying human remains.

‘Jakob,’ he snapped. ‘Add his brain pan to the others and feed the rest to my hounds.’

Kurt stomped across the open space at the centre of the small village, his feet crunching over patches of shadowed frost and splashing through slushy puddles caused by the spring thawing. On three sides, a log palisade surrounded the thirty-one huts and long hall that made up the settlement of Fjaergardhold. On the southern edge of the village, the protective wall was broken by the small harbour, where four longships were drawn up on the shale beach that led down into the Fjaergardfjord. Their masts were taken down and laid on their decks alongside the red and white-striped rolls of heavy sailcloth. Each had twenty paddles pitched upright along the benches. Kurt had not yet seen them in their full glory, but their sleek lines, dragon figureheads and brightly patterned timbers were a constant terror to the inhabitants of the Empire’s coastal towns and villages. He had seen the aftermath of their raids, when he’d been a knight of the Osterknacht, a year and a lifetime ago.

It was nearing midday, but the village was quiet. Smoke drifted lazily from open flues in the roofs of the huts, clay pots clattered inside the Norse homes, and the ever present north wind sighed through the tops of the pine trees that surrounded Fjaergardhold. The breeze brought the smell of cooking meat.

The sound of footsteps behind him caused Kurt to turn quickly, fists raised. He relaxed when he saw Hrolfgar, the Fjaergard chieftain, accompanied by his closest advisor – his brother Bjordrin.

‘Hold there, Sutenmjar!’ Bjordrin called out, holding up a hand to halt Kurt as he moved to turn away.

‘Good fight, you think?’ Hrolfgar said, laughing, but Kurt could see the worry behind the grin. His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with darkness, and of late Kurt had noticed a tic developing in the chieftain’s right cheek.

‘Wasteful,’ Kurt murmured. He pointed to his trophy pole. ‘This is the twelfth challenge in the last eight months. Why do they try to do what they know is impossible?’

‘Defeat you?’ asked Bjordrin. ‘No warrior likes to admit that another is stronger than him.’

‘But I am the Chosen,’ replied Kurt, turning towards his hut, the pair falling into step to his left. ‘The gods protect me. Mortal warriors cannot harm me. Why do they persist? When I first came here, after that long, deadly trek from Tungask, I was welcomed as a victorious saviour. For forty days most of those whose heads I have taken walked alongside me, through the blizzards and storms, helping me, teaching me about the Fjaergard.’

‘Men together on such a march will always help each other,’ Bjordrin said. ‘An enemy in peace and wealth is often an ally in adversity.’

‘But why be my enemy now?’ Kurt said as he wrenched open the plain wooden door of his hut and stooped inside.

The smell of roasting pork filled his nostrils, and he saw Anyata crouched by the fire, turning a dripping haunch on a spit. Hearing him enter, she looked up with a wide smile, her reddish-blond hair plastered to her face with sweat. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat, making her even prettier in Kurt’s eyes.

Standing, Anyata skipped across the room to give him a deep hug, her head resting briefly on his armoured chest, and then stepped away and looked to the back of the hut. There, swaddled in a blanket of red and blue checks, their son Heldred slumbered peacefully, his small hands clutching a toy horse made of straw.

‘He has slept since breakfast,’ Anyata said with a smile. She looked past Kurt at the others entering, and nodded respectfully as Hrolfgar and Bjordrin raised their hands in greeting. ‘Men’s talk?’ she asked, her smile fading.

‘I’ll watch Heldred,’ Kurt said with a nod towards the door. He watched her leave, and as the door creaked shut, paced to the piles of bottles and jars beside the fireplace. Tossing aside his gauntlets, he picked up a stoppered jug, shook it next to his ear and discarded it. Lifting another, he smiled as heard the sloshing of ale inside. Gesturing for Bjordrin and Hrolfgar to sit on the straw bedding along the walls, he took three drinking horns and passed around the strong beer.

‘Tell me, truthfully, why is the village discontented?’ he asked, leaning back on the mat and taking a sup.

‘For over a full passing of the seasons, you have been with us,’ Hrolfgar said after a short silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire and a sleepy murmur from the baby. ‘When you arrived, you were the Chosen, the greatest warrior of our tribe. You fought like a god at Tungask, and ever since none have been able to stand against you.’

‘I know this,’ muttered Kurt.

‘The Chosen is a great man,’ Bjordrin said. ‘You eat the finest of our food, drink the finest of our ale, have wedded the finest of our women. In return, you are the finest of our warriors.’

‘Have I not proven that again today?’ Kurt said. ‘There were few enough of your menfolk who survived Tungask, now more must die by my hand?’

‘They think you have grown weak,’ Hrolfgar said with a glance at his brother. ‘When you came, there was battle in your heart, the gods’ light in your eyes. The saga of Tungask roused their spirits, their victory songs rocked our great meeting hall. But Tungask should have been only the start of your saga. A whole summer passed with no raids. You spend your time hunting, feasting, and with Anyata and Heldred. The tribe are looking to you to repay them for the privileges you enjoy.’

‘They say you are the Chosen wife, not the Chosen warrior,’ Bjordrin said, staring into his ale. ‘You were not given these gifts by the gods to make love, you were given them to make war. The fire that is in your blood is now used for cooking pigs, not for burning the lands of our enemies.’

Kurt did not reply, but sat in silence swirling the ale in his drinking horn, until he was roused by a coughing cry from Heldred. He stood swiftly and strode to the cot, concerned. Some of the straw of the toy had worked loose and caught in the baby’s mouth. Delicately, he pried it free and flicked it to the floor. Catching up Heldred in his free arm, the babe nestling against his elbow, he turned back to the others and took a long draught of ale.

‘My parents were slain and I was driven from my home by a madman,’ he said, looking at his son. ‘The woman I loved betrayed me to that man, and I killed him. Do I not deserve the love of a woman, the pride I feel when I look at my child?’

‘And what will you tell him when he is older?’ Hrolfgar asked. ‘You have learned much about our people, your son will be raised by them. Will he hear stories of hunting boar and wolf, and of drinking silently in the hall? Or stories of the prows of our longships cleaving the waves of the great seas, bringing ruin and terror to the weaklings of the south? Which father will he be most proud of?’

‘The gods did not choose you for a life warmed by the hearth,’ Bjordrin said, draining his horn and tossing it next to the fire. ‘The gods chose you for a life seared by the fires of battle.’

Placing Heldred back in his cradle, Kurt sighed.

‘I will think about what you have said,’ he told them, gazing at the face of his son, his heart heavy.

‘Do not think too long, Sutenmjar, or you will have to place another head on your pole,’ Hrolfgar said, standing up beside his brother, stroking a hand through his long beard. ‘Thank you for the ale, we shall talk tomorrow.’

Kurt did not turn around as they left and the door clattered shut. With a gurgle, Heldred opened his eyes and looked up at his father. Bright and blue were his eyes, full of intelligence. For a moment, he stared at Kurt, before starting to cry.

‘Hush now, Heldred,’ Kurt soothed, dropping the drinking horn and rubbing the wisps of dark hair sprouting from his child’s scalp. He then held his index finger up before the boy’s face. He relaxed and let his mind look into himself, his nerves twitching as he dug into the power that ran through him, the magic that had infused him for a year and a half since he swore allegiance to the gods of Chaos. It flowed up through his veins, his blood becoming as fire, and he guided it, controlled it, until a small blue flame burst from his fingertip. Instantly, Heldred’s cries of hunger became soft gurgles of delight as his bright eyes focussed on the flickering fire.

‘Your father still has fire in his blood,’ Kurt said with a smile, which soon faded and became tears as he realised what he must do.

Kurt stripped off his armour as Anyata sat with Heldred at her breast. Once, it had been a full suit of solid, Imperial plate mail, forged by Bechafen’s finest smithies, as befitted a knight of the Osterknacht. Kurt had discarded much of it on his perilous escape from the psychotic witch hunter, Marius van Diesl. It had been further modified at Tungask, when Hrolfgar had inscribed it with many Norse sigils and charms and presented it back to Kurt after the ex-knight had survived the rites that had invested him with the power of the gods. Now, its origins were barely recognisable. Tofstig, the Fjaergard’s blacksmith, had done his best to keep it in good repair, but steel was impossible for these people to forge, and full plate even harder. Much of it was now pig iron chainmail, and even had scraps of bronze riveted into its armour plates.

Kurt had changed as well. He studied his own body. He had always been tall and broad, but since becoming one of the Chosen he had grown considerably. He was fully a head taller than any other man in the village. His arms were as thick as a normal man’s thighs and it was impossible for Anyata to reach around the massive expanse of his chest and back. Despite extra leather strapping and plates, Kurt’s armour barely fit him.

It was not just his build that had changed. His skin felt more leathery, tougher like a calloused foot. He could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest, magical blood filling his arteries and making them bulge under his skin. He was always ravenously hungry, no matter how much he ate, and it took a whole barrel of ale to make him drunk. His hair, once cropped in the manner of the latest Ostermark fashions, hung down past his shoulders, braided with bronze clasps and animal skulls.

‘Troubled?’ Anyata asked, breaking his self-contemplation. ‘You look at yourself as if ashamed.’

‘You don’t think it’s… unnatural?’ Kurt said, turning to her and holding his arms wide.

‘You are beautiful,’ Anyata said with a coy smile. ‘It is the mark that the gods favour you. Many are our people who show the touch of the gods, you know that.’

‘And you are not ashamed that you married a Sutenmjar?’ he asked quietly. ‘Would you not prefer a Norse husband?’

‘You have been Chosen, that makes you the finest man in the tribe!’ said Anyata with a giggle. ‘The other women are very jealous, they do not know why you chose me, with my strange hair.’

Kurt did not reply. He had not really considered the reddish tinge to Anyata’s locks before. It was nowhere near as red as Ursula’s hair, but remarkable amongst a tribe almost universally blond. The association troubled him and he changed the subject.

‘I have decided that this year I will go raiding,’ he said to her, studying her face for a reaction.

‘That is good,’ Anyata said, a broad smile on her face.

‘You are not upset that I shall be away for many months?’ Kurt was puzzled.

‘You will return,’ Anyata said with confidence. ‘And while you are away you will earn great honour and glory, and bring back treasures for me and little Heldred!’

She carefully placed the sleeping child in his bed and pulled the blanket over his shoulders.

‘Would you still love me if I was not the Chosen?’ Kurt asked, suddenly suspicious.

‘I do not know. You have always been the Chosen, so I cannot imagine you any other way,’ Anyata said, stepping towards him, closing the front of her dress.

‘So you only love me because I am the Chosen!’ said Kurt with a grin, opening the front of her robe again with a soft stroke of his hand.

‘Who says I love you now?’ she said with a wink, placing her hands on his chest as he pulled her close.

Hrolfgar sat in the chieftain’s chair at the head of the table in the great hall, Bjordrin to his right. As the doors swung in and the firelight was drowned by the spring sun from outside, he looked up, his face haggard. Bjordrin scowled at the intrusion, but his expression lightened when he saw that it was Kurt. Softly closing the doors behind him, the Chosen walked down the hall and lowered himself onto the bench to the chieftain’s left.

‘I will lead the raiding this summer,’ Kurt said quietly.

‘That is good, that is very good,’ Bjordrin said with a nod, nudging Hrolfgar. ‘Isn’t that good?’

Bleary-eyed, scratching at his beard, Hrolfgar regarded Kurt for a long moment before he also nodded.

‘Yes, that is very good,’ he said, but his voice was despondent.

‘I thought you would be happier,’ Kurt said, taken aback by the sombre mood of the others. ‘Isn’t this what you wanted?’

Hrolfgar merely grunted and moved his gaze away, so Kurt looked to Bjordrin for an explanation. The chieftain’s brother glanced at Hrolfgar, weighing up his words.

‘Last night, the men gathered here to talk about this year’s raids,’ Bjordrin said, standing up and beginning to pace a few steps back and forth behind Hrolfgar. ‘They said they would not follow you, they want Hrolfgar to lead the raiding this season.’

‘I do not mind,’ Kurt told them. ‘Hrolfgar is the chieftain, it is his right to lead. I may be the Chosen, but I will gladly follow him.’

‘No!’ snapped Hrolfgar, thumping a fist into the table, before his head drooped once more and his voice dropped to a mumble. ‘I may have the right to lead, but I am not fit to lead.’

‘He thinks too much about Tungask,’ Bjordrin said with a concerned look at his brother. ‘He believes it was his fault that we ran aground, and lost so many men in the fighting against the witch hunter and his knights.’

‘You led us to victory, not I,’ Hrolfgar said with a shake of his head. ‘It was you, Kurt, who defeated van Diesl. It is you who should lead the raids.’

‘I couldn’t have done it without you,’ Kurt said. ‘It was you and your men who fought bravely alongside me. It does not matter to me if you lead the raids.’

An uneasy silence settled on the hall, broken by the crackle of the fire and the padding of Bjordrin’s boots on the packed earth as he continued to pace. Kurt stood and walked to the fire, grabbing a large branch and stoking it into more life, the sparks dancing from the pit. The sight, coupled with the conversation, stirred memories of Tungask. He saw the town in flames, torched by the men of the Osterknacht. He also saw Marius van Diesl bursting into flames on the end of Kurt’s sword, his death scream echoing like a victory cry in Kurt’s mind.

‘I will lead the raid,’ Kurt said, not turning around.

‘But the men, they refuse to follow you,’ said Bjordrin.

‘Gather them here, call them to the hall,’ Kurt said, still gazing into the flames. ‘I will persuade them.’

‘They will not listen,’ Hrolfgar said in a depressed whisper. ‘I talked to them last night. If I will not lead them, they say that I should no longer be chieftain. Perhaps they are right.’

‘No, they are not,’ said Bjordrin. ‘You are chieftain by right of the gods and your own deeds. The Fjaergard have been strong with your leadership, now you must be strong.’

‘Listen to your brother, Hrolfgar,’ Kurt said, tossing the branch into the flames and striding to stand over the chieftain, leaning down beside him. ‘Call the warhird, stand tall and proud next to me and follow my lead.’

‘I will do what I can for you, Sutenmjar,’ Hrolfgar said with a nod, pushing himself to his feet. Kurt watched him walk the length of the hall and out of the doors. He gestured to Bjordrin to sit down, and took the place on the bench next to him.

‘There’s a problem, I didn’t want to mention it in front of Hrolfgar,’ Kurt said, with a glance towards the doors. ‘He seems low enough already.’

‘What problem?’ Bjordrin asked with a frown.

‘I was a knight, not a sailor,’ said Kurt.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Bjordrin.

‘Your warriors are all sailors as well,’ Kurt said. ‘They can man a ship as easily as hold a shield and swing an axe. I was trained to ride a horse and wield a lance. I’ve never even been on a ship, and if I am to lead the raids, I will need to captain one of the longships.’

‘I see your problem,’ Bjordrin said with a rueful nod.

‘You have to help me,’ Kurt said, laying a meaty hand on Bjordrin’s arm. ‘None of the other men will, they will see it as another sign that I am unfit to be Chosen. Say you will come with me, and captain my ship. Hrolfgar may be losing faith in himself, and the men can feel it, but they still set store by your counsel. If you will stand beside me, it will sway their minds in my favour.’

Bjordrin laughed, and slapped a hand to Kurt’s shoulder.

‘Of course I will follow you!’ Bjordrin said. ‘It’s a raid, why wouldn’t I? And don’t worry, I will guide your hand, teach you the ways of the wind and the wave.’

‘Promise me!’ Kurt said.

‘I swear by the gods it will be true,’ Bjordrin said immediately, his jollity replaced by concern. ‘But why do you need my oath?’

‘I hope I don’t give you cause for regret,’ Kurt said. ‘But there is something else I must do.’

Bjordrin’s retort was cut short as the doors opened again and Hrolfgar entered, a throng of warriors at his back. The two of them stood respectfully as the chieftain approached. Kurt noticed how he stood straighter now: there was a swagger to his step as he strode back to his tall chair. His face betrayed the lie of his false bravado, but at least he was trying. Kurt watched the men taking their places at the feasting benches, a movement to the side drawing his attention to Jakob. The wiry shaman skulked along the wall, trying to remain inconspicuous. Kurt caught his eye and with a barely perceptible nod indicated for Jakob to join him by the firepit.

‘What are you planning?’ Jakob said bluntly, pulling at his straggly moustaches in irritation.

‘We will go raiding this year,’ Kurt said in a whisper, and Jakob’s eyes narrowed in alarm.

‘What?’ the shaman said, hissing in irritation. ‘Didn’t I warn you that raiding was dangerous and stupid? You are the Chosen, you don’t have to go raiding!’

‘Yes I do,’ Kurt said, casting a pointed look at the other warriors. ‘Soon they will decide that challenges aren’t enough.’

‘You are afraid?’ Jakob said, cackling softly. ‘Kurt Leitzig, Kurt Sutenmjar, Kurt the Chosen, is scared?’

‘Not for me, for my wife and child,’ said Kurt, grabbing the front of Jakob’s furs and dragging him close so that he could whisper in his ear. ‘And you, shaman, will start to earn your keep.’

‘What do you mean?’ Jakob said, struggling against Kurt’s iron grip. ‘Did I not make you the Chosen? Did I not bring forth the servants of the gods to aid you in Tungask? You forget so easily!’

‘You did nothing of your own free will,’ Kurt said. ‘You may have fooled me once with your northern wisdom and silver words, but not any more. I am the Chosen, you were simply the vessel of the will of the gods. And now, you will be the vessel of my will.’

Jakob sagged and Kurt released his hold on his jerkin and pushed him away. He returned to his place at Hrolfgar’s side, as the chieftain raised his hands for silence.

‘This year, we shall raid again!’ he bellowed, greeted with a tumultuous cheer from the assembled Norse. Waving his hands for quiet once more, he turned to Kurt. ‘This year the omens bode well. The hunting will be good. The gods have given us a great gift, they have delivered to us this mighty warrior, their Chosen, and he shall lead the raids.’

There was angry murmuring, and a few of the warriors got to their feet and shouted their discontent. Hrolfgar was about to shout back at them but Kurt gently placed a hand on his chest to restrain him and stepped forward. The hall fell into a bitter silence.

‘I am Chosen of the Fjaergard,’ Kurt said, his gaze passing along the rows of warriors. ‘I am the finest warrior of the village. There is no doubt. But I have come to realise that there is more to being the Chosen than simply winning by force of arms.’

He paused in his speech, drew his sword, and laid it on the table, where its keen blade glinted in the dim firelight. Stretching himself to his full height, Kurt began to slowly pace down the hall.

‘To be the Chosen is to be the greatest servant of the gods,’ he continued. ‘It is to light the fires of conquest in the hearts and bellies of my fellow warriors. It is to be a burning brand of destruction, feared by all. And this past year, I have failed you, and I have failed the gods. This year I will make amends, I will show the gods and I will show you why I am the Chosen. This year I will lead the raiding, and such raiding you will have not seen in your lifetime. At Tungask, my saga began, and this summer my saga will continue. I will give you stories that the children of your children’s children will tell and sing in this hall. Those of you who join me will live in these great times and share in the glory I will bring to the Fjaergard.’

A few warriors still looked surly, but many now were listening with interest, and some were smiling at Kurt’s promise.

‘Not for us the weaklings of the Empire,’ Kurt said with a grin, and turned to Jakob. ‘Tell me, shaman, of the great sea of sand that lies to the south. Tell us of the riches of the desert that you once told me of.’

Startled by the sudden attention, Jakob looked as if we would bolt rather than answer. However, he pulled himself together and stepped out of the shadows so that the assembled Norse could see and hear him.

‘Far, far to the south, beyond the Sea of Claws and the Great Ocean lies the great desert,’ he said in his thin voice. ‘The land of Araby it is called. As snow settles on the mountain here, so the sun settles on the great wastes of the Arabians. Golden temples and ancient cities full of gems and jewels lie in the desert, or so it is said. The Arabians are a fierce, independent people, with skins of tanned leather, long flowing robes and they ride upon strange horses with great humped backs that can walk for days without water. And as well they should, for the sun drinks all water except for a few pools and trickling rivers. It is death to travel the desert without knowledge of these places, and your bones will whiten under the harsh sun within the week, picked clean by the circling carrion birds.’

‘Treasures and glory await us in Araby!’ said Kurt. ‘Merchants and traders, with chests of wealth and wearing golden finery travel to the Empire. They bring spices, the hides of exotic spotted and striped beasts, and diamonds the size of a man’s fist. Not for the Fjaergard the stinking fishing hovels of the Empire coast. Not for the Fjaergard the ransoming of a burgomeister for a few measly crowns. We shall set sail for Araby and return with the wealth of ancient kings. We shall buy steel and employ the finest smiths, carpenters and goldworkers and arm ourselves for further war. The tribes to the north and the west and the east will kneel before the might of Fjaergard, and those we cannot buy we shall overcome with blade and shield. The Fjaergard, the name of Chieftain Hrolfgar, your names, will be sung through history as the greatest Norse to have lived, and the generations to come will revere us as lords of battle. The gods will look down upon us and be generous with their gifts. You too will become Chosen, and we will go out into the world to bring terror and fear to our foes!’

A great shout went up from a good many of the warriors, and there was much cheering and waving of swords and axes. Snari Goldtooth stood up and indicated he would travel with Kurt. Then Aelfir of the Long Axe also stood, and then another and another. There were still over a dozen who sneered and shook their heads, stalking from the hall exchanging bitter words with one another, but the rest pressed in around Kurt, slapping him on the back and shoulder. Hrolfgar shouldered his way through the crowd, Kurt’s sword in his hand. The others fell back to give him space.

Drawing the sword across his palm, Hrolfgar offered up his bleeding hand to Kurt. Kurt took the sword and cut himself similarly, and then they grasped each other’s fist, their blood mingling and dripping down their forearms and onto the floor.

‘So shall it be!’ said Hrolfgar with a roar, and Kurt could see the worry lift from his face, see the sag of his shoulders disappear. Out of the corner of his eye, Kurt saw Jakob sidling towards the door.

‘Ho there, shaman!’ he shouted after Jakob. ‘I cannot go without my messenger from the gods!’

Jakob opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it again, his body slumping in depressed acknowledgement. The crowd began to file out, eager to make ready the longships, to sharpen weapons, fix armour and set in stores. Soon only Kurt, Hrolfgar, Bjordrin and Jakob were left. With a nod to the chieftain and his brother, Kurt turned to leave, draping a long arm over Jakob’s shoulders and pulling him along.

‘What do the gods think?’ Kurt asked quietly, switching to his native Reikspiel so that if he were overheard none would understand him.

‘Not know what gods think,’ Jakob said in the Imperial tongue. ‘But I think you a bloody fool.’

CHAPTER TWO

DJINN

Marienburg, Early spring 1711

Thick purple smoke from seven incense burners hung heavy in the air of the chamber. The furniture was piled crudely on the wide bed, leaving an open space on the floor. There, drawn in goat’s blood, were marked a succession of seven circles, which interweaved with triangles, squares and each other in a disturbing fashion, seeming to shift and coalesce. It might have been a simple trick of the light though, for the windows were shuttered and the only illumination was from a red-glassed lantern set at the centre of the ring.

The room’s only occupant was sitting inside another circle of flowing script of waving lines and dots. She was dressed in a loose silk robe of deep pink, a similarly coloured veil about her head and face so that only her dark eyes were visible. Her bare arms, laid on her knees, were ringed with gold and bronze circlets that were hung with silver pendants shaped into arcane sigils.

She began to murmur softly, the incantation spilling from her lips in a slow, constant stream of strange syllables. The language was known to only a few, a bastardised version of the Dark Tongue – the speech of Chaos. As she intoned the spell, the sorceress began to make motions in the air in front of her, the soft jangling of her bracelets and armbands matching the rhythm of her words. For several minutes nothing happened, as she repeated the magical verse over and over, slight variations of inflection and volume accompanied by subtle changes in her gesturing: a lifted finger, a twist of the wrist, a sigh of breath or inhuman whistle.

The light of the lantern began to dance, creating shapes in the cloying smoke that flittered and swayed around the woman, darkest at the centre of the summoning circle, unable to penetrate the warding line around her. Her breath came in quickening gasps as she increased the speed and volume of her incantation, her chest heaving under the silk, a fine mist of sweat gathering on her bare flesh. The smoke writhed with a life of its own, surging along the walls, creeping over the shutters, sliding through the pile of furniture in exploration.

With a shriek that increased in pitch until it was beyond human hearing, the enchantress brought her hands together in a loud clap. In an explosion of red light, the lantern shattered, the fragments spraying out then dropping at the edges of the circle as if they had hit a wall. With an implosion of air, the smoke was sucked into the summoning ring and the incense burners flared and went out. The blood on the floor began to burn and bubble, hissing as steam rose from the mystic signs.

And there, inside the ring of spell-shapes, the smoke wove itself into a body. From a swirling mass, long legs rose into the form of a tall man, barrel-chested, muscles carved in ever-shifting smoke. His face was handsome, a long beard of dripping fumes pointing out from a square chin. The creature’s eyes were points of flame, seemingly vast yet viewed from a great distance so as to appear as small flickers of yellow light.

He’arka’thul’akut, a voice echoed around the room, coming from all directions and none. The creature’s mouth moved in mockery of speech, but the shapes formed by its smoking lips did not match the sounds that emanated from the room.

‘You shall speak in my tongue, so that your words might be clear to me,’ the woman said, settling her arms back on to her knees.

As you bid.

‘You know why you are summoned here, noble djinn?’ the enchantress asked, flicking a gaze at the smoking sigils on the floor. They were burning quickly; the elemental she had summoned was a powerful one and her wards would not last more than a few minutes.

I know what dwells within. I know of the she’al akra.

‘And you know then what I seek,’ she said, keeping her voice as calm as possible. Already three outer circles had almost vanished, and she had to fight against a moment of panic. ‘I seek to know how the she’al akra can be healed.’

That which dwells within is strong.

‘You are strong, magnificent djinn,’ she tried flattery. ‘You can heal this gaping wound.’

I am strong, yet that which dwells within is stronger still. I cannot heal the she’al akra. There is no power in the immortal realm that can aid you.

Another circle bubbled away. Now there were only two remaining. Tendrils of smoke were creeping along the outside of the holding circle, seeking an exit. The sigils surrounding the summoner were beginning to glow as magical energy from the djinn seeped into the room.

‘Am I doomed?’ she asked, panic in her voice.

There is no power in the immortal realm that can aid you.

‘Then there is a power in the mortal realm that can aid me!’ the enchantress said, smiling triumphantly. The djinn was holding something back, but it could not tell a lie outright, the summoning bound it to its every word. She would have to be swift, and she gulped heavily before asking her next question. ‘What is it in the mortal realm that can save me?’

Long ago, the elves made a blade that wounded our kind. It was wielded by one of their fiercest warriors. Strong he was, and he waged a terrible war…

‘Enough stories, tell me about the sword!’ the woman said, realising that the djinn was playing for time, hoping to avoid answering before the summonation seals burned out. There was only one circle left now. Sweat trickled down the enchantress’s cheeks, and her eyes flickered between the djinn and the remaining ward circle.

The blade contains the essence of a great many of our kind. The power of the sword can be released and used to heal the she’al akra.

‘Where is the blade now?’ she asked quickly.

The elves gave it to a man of these lands. That man fell in battle and the dwarf folk of the mountains took it into their deep halls. There they hold it still.

‘Which hall, which hold do the dwarfs keep it in?’ the enchantress barked the question in a quivering voice, her eyes fixed to the bubbling blood on the floor. The last warding ring was now almost gone.

In the peaks between the white and black, from wasteland city south and west.

‘Your riddle is obvious, you mean the Grey Mountains,’ said the woman. ‘Tell me, what is the sword called, and how might I trace its history?’

A deep laugh rumbled around the room, and the image of the man within the circle faded and turned into a miniature whirlwind. Fire flared at its heart, and it rose into the air, growing in size and power. The last circle had burned out.

Like a storm breaking, the djinn crashed through the thin veil of barriers holding it in check. It roared around the room, ripping paper from the walls and tossing the furniture into the air, lifting up the bed itself. With a flash of lightning it battered itself against the circle of protection that still remained around the enchantress, and a bestial shriek of frustration filled the air. Again and again, the djinn threw itself at the warding spells, and the floor itself was ripped up in the tumult, boards splintering, nails whirling savagely into the plaster now exposed on the walls.

‘I bid you go!’ shouted the woman, standing hastily and flinging out her arms. There was an agonised wail and then the smoke tornado exploded into flames that seared for a moment and then disappeared. The furniture fell to the floor with loud thuds, the bed settling against a cracked wall.

It was only then that the woman became aware of a loud banging at the heavy oak door, and shouting from beyond.

‘Lady Halste? Lady Halste?’ she recognised the voice of Khemen, her manservant. ‘Princess Jasmina?’

Snarling she wrenched open the door and confronted the swarthy man, his fist half-raised to bang on the door again. He was short, a head shorter than the long-limbed sorceress, and plump. She grabbed him by the mop of dark hair that splayed over his head and dragged him squealing into the room, kicking the door shut with her heel as she turned and pushed him to the ground.

‘What have you forgotten, Khemen?’ she spat, kicking him in the midriff with a bare foot, her anklets jangling. ‘What did I tell you?’

‘Never call you princess,’ whimpered Khemen, who curled up on the floor as best his expansive gut allowed. ‘I was worried, I did not think…’

‘Never!’ the woman shrieked, kicking him again and again. ‘I am Lady Halste! I am Lady Halste!’

‘Yes, my lady, yes, yes,’ sobbed Khemen, tears gathering on the bushy moustache that almost totally obscured his mouth.

‘Now, my sweet Khemen,’ Lady Halste continued, crouching down to hug the quivering servant, ‘you know you shouldn’t displease me.’

‘I am sorry, my lady,’ Khemen’s head bobbed vigorously in deference. Standing, Lady Halste pulled off the veil to reveal her beautiful face, her lips full and red, her eyes decorated with deep pink shadow, her sharp cheeks accentuated with a subtle rouge. She smiled sweetly at Khemen, helped him to his feet and made a play of dusting him down. Kissing him lightly on the forehead, she smoothed back his ruffled hair.

‘Now, Khemen, compose yourself,’ she told him, stepping lightly across the room to pull open the shutters. Rain pattered on the small diamond-shaped panes of heavy glass, and a grey, dismal light shone into the chamber, revealing the havoc wreaked by the angry djinn. Khemen’s eyes widened in horror and he looked at his mistress, who was gazing out of the window, absent-mindedly twisting a curl of her black hair around a finger.

‘Are you hurt, my lady?’ Khemen asked, taking a step towards her. She spun on her toes, and then seeing his gaze gave a dismissive wave with her fingers, the gold of her rings catching the watery light from outside.

‘Oh, I’m perfectly fine, Khemen,’ Lady Halste assured him. She then clapped her hands a couple of times, and bounded across the room towards the door. ‘You can tidy this up later, we’ve got important work to do!’

Huddled against the rain, Khemen shuffled out of the doors of the great building where Lady Halste was currently occupying her palatial apartment. He tried desperately to remember what she had told him, yet his mind was dulled by a combination of the cold and the terror he still felt after hearing the inhuman shrieks that had emanated from the lady’s room.

The rain did not dampen the smell of salt water and fish that the sea breeze brought in from Marienburg’s extensive docks. All-in-all, Khemen decided, Marienburg was a dull and dreary place. Even where the lady held her apartments, in one of the richest parts of the cities, the houses were in poor repair, or so it seemed to him. The greying whitewash of the walls peeled from cracked plaster between mould-rimed wooden beams. The streets were uneven, the city built in the middle of a marsh. There was much evidence that whole streets had subsided over the centuries and simply been rebuilt on top of the ruins.

It seemed that the buildings themselves were continually fighting against this inevitable sinking, as haphazard storeys were built atop each other, with garrets and turrets protruding at odd angles, and in some places the buildings had extended so far as to link up overhead, creating arches and galleries several storeys above street level. The grey slate roofs did nothing to increase the city’s limited charm in his eyes. They were dismal compared to the great marble, alabaster and painted sandstone domes of his city of birth, many, many leagues to the south.

And the weather was intolerable. For a man who had never seen rain until he had travelled northwards only a few years ago, the constant downpour that pervaded the realms of the Old World was a misery. Here in Marienburg it seemed as if the sky itself wept in lament at the sprawling misery of humanity laid beneath it. He pulled his red woollen cloak tighter around his shoulders and almost slipped down the steps leading to the sparsely cobbled streets.

While he waited to hail a passing coach, Khemen reflected on the city that had become his home for the last three years. It did have a kind of squalid character, and wore its long maritime history like a medal. There were windows made from ship’s wheels, rafters fashioned from masts and spars, and many of the doorways of the larger buildings actually mounted figureheads. Struck by a sudden insight, he looked up at the overlapping roofs, attic windows and spindly chimney flues and they struck him as reminiscent of the sails and masts of a great galleon or man o’war. Yes, he decided, there was a certain nautical feel to the whole place, the buildings themselves taking on a form of indefinable ‘shipness’ that was comfortable to the people living there.

Spying a coach approaching, he gingerly stepped out into the street, trying to avoid the numerous muddy puddles, and held out his arm. With a cry, the coachman pulled on the reins and the coach slewed to a halt a few steps from Khemen, the horses’ hoofs splashing mud onto his dark leather boots. Grimacing at the amount of effort it would take to remove the mudstains from his garments, Khemen pulled open the door and hauled himself into the coach.

‘The Grand Library,’ he called to the driver as he shook out the rain from his coat, and then slammed the door and slumped into the seat. The horses clattered onto the cobbles as the coach turned around, and quickly dropped into a steady rhythm.

Feeling the coach slowing, Khemen pulled back the curtains and peered through the raindrop spattered glass. In the dismal gloom he could see a large edifice disappearing out of sight above them and knew they were at the Grand Library of Marienburg. The driver pulled the horses to a clattering halt, and Khemen opened the door. He dropped down from the coach, slammed the door and tossed a crown up to the driver, who caught it deftly in his gloved hand.

‘I can’t change a crown, sir!’ the driver protested and was about to toss it back when Khemen held up his hand to stop him.

‘There’s another for you if I find you waiting here when I come out,’ the Arabian told him.

‘How long you ’spect to be?’ the driver asked.

‘Several hours yet, I suspect,’ Khemen told the man.

‘How long’s that?’ the driver asked, squinting down at his passenger.

‘A rain of frogs upon the heads of ex-sailors,’ Khemen muttered to himself in Arabic before addressing the driver. ‘It’ll be at least half a watch before I’m ready to return.’

‘Right you are, sir, see you here then.’ The driver gave Khemen a nod before he cracked his whip over the horses and the coach rattled away.

Khemen turned away and looked up at the Grand Library of Marienburg, though to most of the inhabitants of the city it was simply the Tomeship. It wasn’t difficult to see why. The library was built upon a foundation of stone one storey high, with steps leading up to it. The rest of the building was built from the hulls of three immense ships, one laid upon the other two. A labyrinthine network of extra spars and reinforcing struts kept the structure relatively sturdy, and here and there brick walls had been built onto the hulls, and slate-tiled roofs sprawled at every angle in mockery of sails that no longer flapped in the wind. All-in-all, Khemen considered, it was quite the most ghastly piece of architecture he had ever encountered.

The masts were still intact and flew the flag of Marienburg from their heads, as well as numerous other flags that communicated a variety of meanings to the people of Marienburg and those out in the harbour who could clearly see the tall building from quite a distance.

Today, the lower left mainmast flew a long yellow pennon over a square, red flag. That meant that it would be an early evening tide. The masthead to the right was hung with three flags, alternating blue-white-blue, which meant that the local weather-watchers expected rain all day. Khemen snorted to himself at that, since in Marienburg it rained nearly all day, every day. Finally, the central mast displayed a great white pennon, nearly three hundred feet above street level, that snapped and fluttered in the prevailing wind. White meant the wind was expected to remain steady all day. Again, a westerly sea breeze was fairly common in the port, one of the reasons why the harbour was so chaotically busy. Approaching it was rarely a problem, but ships leaving the city often had to be towed out of the port by boats, or be rowed out on their own sweeps, because there was insufficient room to tack against the prevailing wind.

Khemen tramped up the wooden steps that led to the great doorway into the library. The double doors were open, and he stepped inside, feeling the warmth of the two braziers positioned just a few steps into the library to ward away the chill of the outside. Warming his hands by one of the braziers, Khemen looked around the great hall, which was almost completely bare except for a few scattered desks, none of them occupied. The floor was tiled in a chequered pattern of red and white, the tiles chipped and worn.

The whole building creaked in the wind, and Khemen looked up at the hulls of the ships above. The timbers were painted over in white, but the spread of barnacles and dotted nail heads could still be seen clearly in the light cast by lanterns hung from the roof. Not far to his right, Khemen could see where the ship had been patched up after a battle, the timbers knitted together with fresher planks.

At the far side of the hall was a long, low counter, behind which stood a tall, thin-faced man, who pored over a volume open on the counter top in front of him. Khemen made his way over to the counter and stood in front of the man.

‘Good day, sir,’ he said and the man slowly looked up at him with watery blue eyes. With a leisurely finger, he pointed to a sign propped up on the counter to Khemen’s left. It read: ‘Please Ringe for the Attentione of the Library Master.’ Khemen looked around, but could see no bell.

‘Ring what, sir?’ he asked the man, who had returned to his study of the book. Glancing at the pages, Khemen saw illustrations of various couples engaging in carnal acts. They seemed even more inappropriate and improbable when viewed upside-down. He had heard of such volumes that originated from far to the east, brought to the Empire by merchants out of the land of Ind. Shuddering, he turned his attention back to the man, who sighed heavily at the interruption. Marking his place with a piece of parchment from the pocket of his doublet, he ponderously closed the book and looked up at Khemen with his weak stare.

Without a word, he shuffled along the counter, using its top to steady himself; Khemen could see he had a pronounced limp. As he rounded the end, the reason became clear: the man’s left leg was twisted outwards almost at a right angle just above the ankle. Straps and metal banding reinforced the smashed joint, nailed into a wooden boot.

Still silent, the man lumbered slowly across the hall back towards the doors. Confused, Khemen trailed behind him. The man’s heavy boot scraped along the tiles, and Khemen realised where many of the scratches and chips that marred the floor had come from. The noise grated on Khemen’s nerves, and each of the man’s steps caused the Arabian to wince at the sound.

After a tortuous eternity for Khemen, the man led him back into the entrance hall. There, in an alcove that Khemen had not noticed when he had entered, was a rope attached to a ship’s bell on an ornate brass hook. His limping guide snorted and pointed to the bell before turning slowly and making his scraping progress back across the main hall. Khemen was transfixed for a moment and mentally slapped himself to break his contemplation of the crippled man’s awkward ambulation. Taking the stiff cord in one hand, he rang the bell twice. A clear sound echoed off the roof of the hallway, and bounced back in strange ways from the hulls of the ships in the chamber beyond.

As the ringing died away, another sound took its place. Above his head, Khemen could hear the steady grinding of gears and muffled rattle of chains. Perplexed, he looked around for the source, but it was not until he stepped back into the main reception hall that he could see what was happening. A section of the ship’s hull making up the ceiling to his right was dropping away on four chains, jerkily descending towards the floor. It swayed from side to side, and Khemen noticed that a handrail of rope was stretched around the wooden platform with brass rods.

On the dais stood a man, and Khemen hurried over towards him, hoping he was the library master, or at least a more helpful assistant.

The occupant of the strange conveyance was a wizened, shrivelled husk of a man, his scalp hairless, his chin sprouting a few white wisps that hung to his chest. He was dressed in a smock made from a patchwork of velvet, linen, wool and bleached canvas, in haphazard squares and rectangles of all colours, tied at the waist with a rope threaded with gilded cord. Khemen noticed the man’s feet were shoeless, and he wore odd-coloured hose, his left leg blue, the right leg green, and the blackened, broken nail of his left big toe protruded from the worn silk.

More remarkable still was the man’s face. His skin was lined with age, yellowing from disease, and his head was encased in a framework of leather and brass, connected with gears and ratchets each no bigger than a thumbnail. A series of different-sized lenses covered the man’s eyes and enlarged them, giving him the appearance of a startled toad.

With a shuddering clank, the platform touched the tiles and the man pulled a lever. The chains took a moment to settle, before he unhooked part of the rope fencing and stepped off.

‘Good day, sir,’ Khemen said, pacing forward and proffering a hand.

‘Is it? Well, I’ll take your word for it young man. Good day to you,’ the elderly gentleman replied. As the man spoke, Khemen noticed that part of the frame around the man’s head punctured the flesh of his jaw and cheeks, and he saw small gears turning like clockwork, and tiny springs contracting and stretching in response. ‘I am Library Master Kueller.’

Khemen was mesmerised, watching the intricate machinery wind and unwind, and it was several moments before he could speak.

‘Venerable Library Master, I have need of your services,’ Khemen eventually managed to say. He averted his gaze from the face-machine, but unfortunately this merely brought his eyes into contact with the equally disturbing stare of Kueller, through the layers of distorting lenses. The library master’s gaze appeared to wander over Khemen’s left shoulder, and the Arabian turned and looked, only to see a blank wall.

‘Excuse me, is something the matter?’ the library master asked, stepping up beside Khemen and following his look.

‘I wondered what you were…’ Khemen began, but then gave up. ‘As I was, er, saying, I require your services, Master Kueller.’

‘Of course you do, young man,’ Kueller nodded, the movement accompanied by the near-silent whirring of more gears. Khemen noticed a trickle of oil running down the man’s neck, and a stain on the colour of his outlandish garment. ‘You wouldn’t have rung the bell, otherwise, would you?’

‘No, no, you’re quite right, sir,’ Khemen agreed, his head bobbing foolishly. ‘I need help with some research. Your, er, assistant, the man over there, directed me to the bell.’

‘Did he? Did he now?’ Kueller said, staring intently at the crippled man behind the counter. ‘He’s not my assistant, I’ll tell you that now. No idea who is, I have no idea.’

Khemen was at a loss for words, the bizarreness of the library master had addled his ability to form any clear thought for the moment.

‘That’s as maybe,’ Kueller said, laying a palsied hand on Khemen’s shoulder and directing him towards the lifting contraption with a surprisingly strong thrust of his arm. ‘Come up to my chambers and we can discuss what you need.’

Khemen let himself be led onto the platform, which was barely big enough for the two of them. Kueller fastened the safety rope and pulled the lever again.

‘Don’t worry, young man, it’s perfectly safe,’ Kueller assured him, but Khemen whitened as the chains retracted and pulled them upwards. ‘I designed and built it myself. Kueller’s Elevating and Descending Apparatus, I call it.’

‘It’s very, er, ingenious,’ Khemen offered, looking at the square of light they were approaching. ‘Steam powered, is it?’

‘Steam?’ snorted Kueller. ‘No, young man, it is not. Wind power, that’s what does it. I have sails on the second gantry lower roof. Wind power, that’s what it is. Steam? Hah! Steam needs wood or peat to burn. Wind, there’s always wind!’

‘Of course there is, Master Kueller,’ Khemen agreed.

With a squeal of braking, the elevating apparatus ground to a halt, nestling into place on the floor of the room above. The room was shallow, and lit with a few lanterns. The floor curved upwards and he realised that he was standing directly in the bilges of the ship. Shelf after shelf of books lined the walls, tottering haphazardly against each other, some propped up with wooden brackets as the lean of the ship’s hull became to steep for the bookshelves to stay upright.

‘Just along here, young man,’ Kueller prompted him, directing him along the hull with a wave of his hand. ‘Mind your head there.’

Khemen stumbled over the bare wooden planks, followed by Kueller, who guided him to a small room at the far end of the ship, where once would have been the cable tier where the anchor rope was stored. It was filled with piles of books and parchments, which tumbled over each other in ungainly heaps.

‘So, what can I help you with?’ Kueller asked, pushing past and settling onto a stool in the middle of the mess of texts.

It took all of Khemen’s concentration to recall why he had come, and he phrased his reply carefully.

‘I am seeking information about a sword, a very important sword,’ Khemen told the library master.

‘Are you indeed?’ Kueller replied. ‘Well, let’s start with what you know already and take it from there.’

Khemen made a silent wish that this would not take long, because too much of Kueller’s company, and the bizarre library itself with its curved, claustrophobic walls, was likely to drive him insane.

CHAPTER THREE

PATRON

The Wasteland, Early Spring 1711

Distant thunder rumbled in the leaden skies, and the first few drops of the coming storm started to patter down onto Ruprecht as he pushed his boat out into the marsh, the mud sucking at his booted feet. Looking up, he felt a chill sea wind blowing in from the west. He pulled his travel cloak tighter and shook the rain from his greying beard. The boat bobbed violently as the burly man stepped over the gunwhale, and he waited a moment for it to settle before clambering over the bundled ropes and netting to grasp the long punting pole. Spitting over the side into the reeds, he took a firm grip on the pole and pushed down, the tip sliding in the muddy bottom of the fen before catching and propelling the boat away from the firmer land.

On the estuary of the Reik, a few miles from the great port of Marienburg, the marsh stretched out in all directions until finally it simply gave way to the sea. In the dismal early morning light, a few water fowl broke from the water and flew into the air at Ruprecht’s approach, as he heaved on the pole. The water gurgled lazily around the hull of the flat-bottomed fishing boat, accompanied by the odd hoot or quack of the geese and ducks that settled in its wake, plunging their heads under the water in search of morsels kicked up from the marshbed.

As the rain grew heavier, Ruprecht stowed the pole in its lock and pulled free a large tarred canvas sheet. He hitched it up to a hook on the bare mast – there was rarely wind enough to make it worth his while setting the sail – and then tied it to the ends of the sternrail to form a crude shelter. The clouds broke and the rain began to lash down from above, pounding an irregular rhythm on the taut sheet, and Ruprecht sat underneath, content to let the boat drift on the weak current.

Watching the rain kick up ripples in the water, battering at the rushes and grasses that occasionally broke the surface of the huge mire, Ruprecht sighed disconsolately. Not for the first time, his gaze unconsciously turned to the south, where Marienburg lay. From there he could get passage on the Reik back to the east, back to the Taal where he had learned how to handle a boat as a young boy. He could get away from this dreary marsh, the interminably precarious existence he had eked out of fishing on the marsh for the last year.

It would be simple to turn the boat around, float the few miles to Marienburg, sell the boat for a few crowns, and then find himself work on one of the barges that travelled to Altdorf and beyond.

Only it wasn’t that simple, he reminded himself ruefully. Word had reached even this desolate place that the orc warlord who had ravaged Solland, the one called Ironclaw, had continued his rampage westward. Even now some claimed that he was devastating the Reikland, that the Prince of Altdorf was besieged in his capital. If that were true, then any travel eastwards would be dangerous indeed.

And then there was the other reason he could not leave.

Sensing the rain lightening, Ruprecht peered out from under his shelter. The storm had passed north of him, only its edges had caught the boatman in its wet embrace. The shower continued, but was light enough for Ruprecht to unhook the sheet and take up the pole again. Steering the boat around a hillock covered in long grasses, Ruprecht found the wide pool that had become his favoured fishing ground of late. The fen shifted and moved, and so did the fish, but a few weeks ago he had found the large lake and had since enjoyed reasonable bounty with his catches. Regularly filled with the tidal flow of the Reik, the pool was deep compared to most of the mire, and Ruprecht suspected that something about the soil just here prevented much of the water seeping away into the rest of the marsh.

Stowing the pole again, he threw the small drifting anchor over the side and let the boat settle while he prepared his nets. Coiling up the trail ropes, he stood and heaved the first weighted net to his left, as far out as he could. Hitching the rope to a peg set into the boat’s bottom, he punted a few yards away to stretch the net out, his course swinging slightly around a centre point marked by the fall of his anchor. He then threw his second net over to the right and with a single push, propelled the boat into a position roughly halfway between the two nets. There he sat down to wait.

Ruprecht cursed softly and constantly, without repetition, as he hauled in the second net. It, too, was completely empty. From just after daybreak until mid-afternoon he had waited for the fish to come, but none had. He had even thrown in a few old fish heads to lure the meat-eaters to his net – fish heads that he could have boiled down for a soup that night, he reflected bitterly – but it had not helped.

The thought of food made his stomach grumble, and he reached down under the seat to pull out his small sack. From the hessian bag he brought out half a stale loaf and a chunk of pungent cheese the area was famed for – so much so that ‘Reek like a Marienburger Blue’ had become a popular saying over the centuries. Tearing off a hunk of bread and popping it into his mouth, he bit into the cheese. He was about to take another bite and then stopped himself. With a resigned sigh, he placed the food back in the sack and stowed it under the bench. Taking up the punt, he began to pole his way northwards.

A half a mile on, a low structure came into view, half hidden amongst the rushes. It was haphazardly constructed from pieces of driftwood, tied with reeds and grass. Salt-whitened planks were laid alongside dark logs, tears of sailcloth, thick hemp ropes and green-tinged copper sheets. At one side, a spray of coloured blooms grew, the brightness incongruous amongst the dilapidated drabness of the surrounding fen. Ruprecht smiled to himself as the nose of the boat nudged onto firmer land and then stopped. Grabbing his sack, he stepped out into the marsh, his boots sinking into the mire past his ankles. With one strong arm he hefted the boat onto the bank and set off the hundred or so yards to the ramshackle hut.

‘Is someone there?’ a voice called out, frail and thin.

‘It’s me,’ Ruprecht called back, heading through the heavy mud to the other side of the shack. A ragged sheet of blue sail served as a door against the wind. He pulled it to one side and ducked under a lintel made from a lost capstan spoke. The interior of the hut was surprisingly clean and tidy in comparison with its derelict exterior. Fresh rushes were laid on the floor in a crosshatch pattern and a small peat fire drifted smoke out of a window made from an irregular piece of galley grating. At the other end of the hovel an impromptu shrine had been made out of a crude wooden mallet held in a knot of anchor rope. A circle of flowers hung around it. In front of the shrine, head bowed, hands on her knees, sat Ursula.

For over a year she had been like this, but Ruprecht was dismayed by the sight every time he visited her. Her red hair, once lustrous and reaching down her spine, was shorn short with crude knife cuts, the ends ragged and wispy. She wore a simple, shabby robe of grey linen that was gathered up to her knees.

‘He still hasn’t spoken to me,’ Ursula murmured, pushing herself slowly to her feet and brushing at her knees.

‘Have you eaten today?’ Ruprecht asked, looking towards the small fire. There was no sign of any cooking.

‘No, I wasn’t hungry,’ Ursula replied listlessly. She wandered aimlessly around the hovel, as if looking for something, obviously confused.

‘What have you lost?’ Ruprecht asked after watching her for a short while. He pulled the bread and cheese from his sack and placed it on a rough wooden platter that lay close to Ursula’s bedding straw. ‘I have something here for you to eat.’

‘Fish?’ Ursula asked, turning towards him. ‘Have you brought more fish?’

‘No, no fish today, they were scared I think,’ Ruprecht told her. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It isn’t your fault,’ said Ursula reassuringly, glancing at the bread and cheese. ‘I was going to see if I could catch something myself today.’

‘Why didn’t you?’ Ruprecht asked, settling himself onto the floor.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Ursula looked away as she spoke. ‘I got caught up in my prayers.’

‘Perhaps you should try praying to Manaan to bring me fish, or Taal perhaps,’ Ruprecht said. ‘There are some things even Sigmar cannot do.’

‘Nonsense!’ laughed Ursula, slightly shrilly. Her voice dropped to a whisper, and she spoke softly to herself, barely audible to Ruprecht. ‘Sigmar is my protector. He spoke to me. He will look after me. He will speak to me again.’

‘Sigmar is a warrior god, you should look for his sign on the field of battle,’ Ruprecht reminded her. ‘I don’t know where this fixation comes from, but you will offend the other gods if you continue to ignore them.’

‘Sigmar is my protector,’ snapped Ursula. ‘It was he who guided me before. It is not for me to judge him, to question why he has left me at this time.’

Ruprecht sighed heavily, idly picking at the straw on the ground.

‘Just ask it,’ Ursula told him.

‘Ask what?’ Ruprecht said, looking up at Ursula.

‘Ask me to come to Marienburg with you,’ she replied. ‘You’ve mentioned it before, and I can tell you’ve been thinking about it again.’

‘Well, you know what I think?’ Ruprecht said, tossing away the straw.

‘It doesn’t matter that nobody recognises us there, that isn’t the point,’ Ursula said. She bent down and helped herself to a hunk of bread.

‘Then what is the point of hiding out here in these gods-forsaken marshes?’ Ruprecht demanded, pushing himself to his feet. ‘Do you know why they’re called the Cursed Marshes? Because you get stuck in them and don’t come out! But the only person who’s stuck is you! What do you think you will achieve, in this hermitage of yours? Is it penance? If so, what do you think you have done to deserve it?’

‘I drove Kurt away, you know that,’ Ursula replied sadly, dropping the bread to the ground from limp fingers. ‘You saw what he became, the monster that I turned him into. How can I forgive myself for that? How can Sigmar forgive me? That’s why he doesn’t come to me any more, that’s why he took the visions away.’

‘Kurt did what he did of his own free will, how many times do I have to tell you?’ Ruprecht said, pacing towards the small fire and warming his hands. He stared at the calluses for a while, looking at the scars left by frostbite that afflicted him on the long journey back from Tungask. The scars reminded him of Kurt Leitzig, the betrayer, the cursed one, and his anger simmered inside. ‘You didn’t drive him to the dark gods. It was Kurt who risked your life, who threw away the comfort and care of your home. He abandoned you, and Sigmar if you like, not the other way around.’

‘So why did the visions go?’ Ursula sobbed, tears running down her cheeks. She turned to Ruprecht, her eyes imploring. ‘Why has He stopped protecting me?’

‘Perhaps because it is you who’s given up, not the gods,’ Ruprecht suggested, ignoring the heartache he felt seeing Ursula in distress. He hadn’t come here for an argument, he never did, but he was not going to support Ursula in her self-imposed misery. ‘You want no part of life any more, you’ve abandoned the Empire. Perhaps if you went out into the world again, did something yourself to rebuild your life, then Sigmar would look upon you again.’

‘But look at it!’ cried Ursula, running to the door and ducking outside, Ruprecht swiftly following her. She stood on the threshold and pointed east over the fens. ‘The Empire’s out there, a ruin, a shambles of what Sigmar built. They’ve all abandoned him, destroyed his memory, thrown away his legacy in their selfishness. Marienburg? You want me to go to Marienburg, the city ruled by rich merchants, the count a throne-bound puppet of guilds and swindlers? Or perhaps we should go east again, yes? To Solland? The ashes of Solland, left destitute and alone when the Empire should have united against the Ironclaw? Or perhaps north to Middenheim, city of the White Wolf, and join their wars against the other states? Or why not just leave the Empire altogether?’

‘And sitting here, away from it all, pretending that life should be better, is the answer?’ Ruprecht asked softly, gripping her arm and pulling her around to face him. ‘Does that make you better than any of them?’

‘You’ll never understand. You weren’t touched by Him like I was,’ Ursula replied, pulling away. ‘Thank you for visiting, and for bringing food. I wish you luck. Travel to Marienburg, sink yourself into their heathen ways and their selfishness. Do what you like, I’ll continue to pray for you, and for everyone!’

Ursula stormed back into the hut, leaving Ruprecht speechless, as the rain began to fall again, spattering on his head and shoulders. He stood there for a long while, his skin glistening in the downpour, his clothes sodden, debating between his desires and his conscience. With sagging shoulders, he eventually turned away and trudged through the muddy puddles back to his boat.

Arriving back in the tiny fishing village of Thurk, Ruprecht tied his boat up to the jetty and made his way to his lodgings with Frau Bergen. In appearance, the shanties of Thurk were little better than Ursula’s hovel. Out in the marshes there was no rock to quarry, and few enough trees to build with. Most of the buildings were constructed from uncut stone, crudely mortared together, with narrow, glassless windows and low doors. Many of them had walls built out of flotsam wood, and were roofed with heavily patched sailcloth. For the burly Ruprecht, it was almost like a village in miniature, and he had come to loathe the cramped confines that had become his home for the last year.

The few dozen people who lived there, eking out a living on the shore of the Reik estuary, were content with their squalor. They were all descendants of families that had either lived here since time immemorial or who had been outcast from the larger settlements of the region for one reason or another. Outcasts like him, he thought bitterly, as he stomped down the muddy track towards the village, his sack over his shoulder. He was wet, cold and thoroughly miserable.

Frau Bergen’s house lay on the outer of Thurk’s two rings of buildings, long and narrow and roofed with sodden thatch that leaked constantly. Barging open the door, he had to bend to enter and squeeze himself into the kitchen inside. It was cold, no fire had been lit, and there was no sign of Frau Bergen. He turned to his right and pulled aside the curtain that marked his area. Inside was a crude straw pallet, a chair that was far too small for him, and a little table. The one luxury was a fraying rug spread next to the mattress.

Tossing his sack to the floor, Ruprecht slumped onto the bed and closed his eyes. The dripping of rain through the thin roof splashed just behind his head, dribbling down the curtain that served as a wall between his bed and the bed of Frau Bergen. Three other boatmen – Tuard, Schmiff and Hayen – had similar quarters taking up the rest of the house. Luckily, it seemed they were out working, or perhaps looking for work, and Ruprecht had a rare moment of solitude. He had become accustomed to his own company out on the fens, and the endless chatter of Frau Bergen and the others had become a misery to him; he often slept on his boat when the rain was not too severe.

Cursing the weather, the gods, Kurt Leitzig, Marius van Diesl and life in general, Ruprecht tried to block out the continuous dripping, and eventually weariness pulled him into sleep.

The sound of clattering pans woke Ruprecht, and he opened his eyes. The rain had stopped, though the odd drip still fell from the roof, and he could smell wood smoke. He lay there a while longer, not moving in case he attracted attention to himself, as he was still in a sour mood and had no stomach for making pleasant talk with any of the house’s other occupants. As he lay there listening to the clattering of clay pots and shuffling feet, his stomach grumbled in reminder of his hunger. Soon, the smell of boiling bacon joined the scent of smoke, and he roused himself, pushing himself up from his pallet and stretching his tired back. Pulling back the curtain, he stepped into the kitchen. He saw that it was dark outside.

Frau Bergen was busying herself by the stove, stoking the fire with an iron rod, her back to Ruprecht. Hearing him scrape a chair back from the table, she turned, and a smile broke her weathered face.

‘Hello Ruprecht, dear,’ she said, standing up, the pain of arthritic joints showing in her expression. ‘I didn’t realise as I had company today.’

‘Where are the others?’ Ruprecht asked, resting his elbows on the unpolished wood of the table and catching a splinter.

‘Young Schmiff is out lending a hand to Herr Tolster, mending nets,’ Frau Bergen told him, bustling over to examine the splinter in his elbow, ignoring Ruprecht’s moan of protest. ‘I don’t know as much about the other two. I hear Hayen took boat last night with Master Welchsen, but he’s back, I saw him in the crowd at the market post.’

‘What crowd?’ Ruprecht asked, wincing against the sting as Frau Bergen dug at the splinter with a broken nail. There were barely enough people in Thurk to be called a crowd even if they all gathered together in one place, and half the village would be away fishing at any one time during the spring.

‘There came a messenger, from the ’burg no less,’ the frau said, showing him the extracted splinter in triumph. ‘Ham broth?’ she offered, waddling back to the fire.

‘That would be very fine indeed,’ Ruprecht said, rubbing at the blood trickling down his arm. ‘A messenger from Marienburg you say? When?’

‘Oh, ’bout fourth watch I’d say, perhaps a little after,’ Frau Bergen said, pouring a thin stew into a cracked bowl and grabbing a wooden spoon off the shelf beside the stove. ‘His horse was fairly lathered, old Tam was telling me.’

Ruprecht smiled to himself at the remark. Frau Bergen was over forty years old, and her referring to Tamitha de Gouyt as old was pretty rich considering they were roughly the same age.

‘So what was the message?’ Ruprecht asked the old lady as she placed the steaming stew in front of him.

‘I don’t know dear, I didn’t hear, I was over at Fraulein Kemper’s helping with the new ked,’ she replied. ‘Such a lively little lad, the spit of his father.’

‘Didn’t Tam say what the message was?’ Ruprecht asked, picking up the spoon and stirring the broth.

‘She didn’t hear neither,’ Frau Bergen said as she filled a bowl for herself and sat opposite Ruprecht. ‘He brought notices with him though, pinned one up on the market post, but I never had me letters, so I can’t read what it says.’

‘I’ll go and read it later,’ Ruprecht said, blowing at a spoonful of stew to cool it. A bit of gristle wobbled in the murky gravy, but he put it from his mind and stuffed the spoon in his mouth, swallowing quickly. Too quickly, he burnt his throat and sputtered.

‘Easy there, Ruprecht, dear,’ Frau Bergen warned. ‘No need to go a-hurrying your scran. Is it alright?’

‘It’s very good,’ Ruprecht lied between coughs.

They sat there eating and not speaking until both had finished. Frau Bergen cleared away the bowls, and then returned to the table with her pipe. Lighting it, she leant her chair back and gazed at Ruprecht out of the corner of her eye.

‘You go see the little wench again?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘You’re always quiet after you’ve been out to see the red girl.’

‘Yes, I visited Ursula today,’ Ruprecht replied stiffly. Frau Bergen said nothing, but her expression spoke her disapproval at full volume. She puffed a few more times on the pipe, still looking at Ruprecht. He felt awkward under her shrewd gaze, but was too polite to leave straight away.

‘I need next week’s rent paying tomorrow,’ Frau Bergen reminded him. Ruprecht nodded, looking away. ‘Don’t tell me you’re a bit short again, dear,’ the landlady said, seeing his disconsolate expression.

‘Fish didn’t bite today, I had nothing to sell,’ Ruprecht explained with a sigh. He knew what was coming next and squirmed inside.

‘Well, dear, that is a shame, and no mistaking,’ Frau Bergen sympathised. She adjusted the heavy linen of her blouse and leant forward, exposing the wrinkled cleavage of her chest. ‘There’s more than one way to pay your dues, as I’ve told you before.’

Glad Bergen had probably once been a very pretty woman, Ruprecht considered, staring towards the stove and avoiding her gaze. Even Ruprecht, who had avoided any company when possible, had heard the tales of her bedroom adventures before she had settled down with her late husband. Since his death, just before Ruprecht’s arrival, it seemed she had been trying to catch up on missed time. It wasn’t that she was particularly ugly, and he knew she washed at least once a week, but the thought made his stomach churn. Luckily, each previous offer of alternative payment for lodgings had been followed by a catch the next day, and he had managed to avoid the issue. Glancing at her leering face, trying not to imagine it contorted in the throes of passion, and failing, Ruprecht decided he’d sooner sell his boat than take up her offer.

‘I’ll go and check the post, see what this message is,’ Ruprecht said quickly, standing up. He strode to the door and turned back just before leaving. ‘I’ll have the rent for you tomorrow evening, one way or the other.’

‘The other way by me, dear,’ she called out after him as he ducked under the lintel into the cold night air. With a shudder that wasn’t caused by the chill, Ruprecht pulled up his hood and set off down the street.

Thurk’s market post was pretentious in the extreme, considering the only market that took place was the daily buying and selling of fish. Everybody grew their own vegetables, and occasionally flour was brought in by someone travelling from the mill ten miles nearer Marienburg, but that was all the trading the village ever saw. However, it did serve as a focal point of the village and was where edicts declared by the Count of Marienburg were pinned up, as well as other important notices.

A flickering torch was nailed to the top of the post, and thin trickles of lamplight shone out of the narrow windows surrounding the central square, but Thurk was otherwise as dark as pitch. The heavy clouds in the sky blocked any moonlight, and Ruprecht carefully negotiated the puddles and water-filled ruts leading up to the market post. A piece of paper was nailed to the post beneath the torch, the ink, having run in the rain, made the words difficult to read. Squinting in the light of the flame, Ruprecht could just about make out what was written there.

GANEFUL EMPLOYE OFFERED!

Mercenaries, Maids, Horsmen and Artesans of all manner are required for an Expedition to the East.

Lady Halste gives Notice of the due Assemblage of a Caravan to the Greye Mounts. All Manner of Opportunities for those of an Adventurus and Brave Spirit awaite. Payment as agreed by Guild Law, or individually agreede for Specialists and Dogs of War.

Inquiries to be Directed to the Sign of the Haggard Fox, Elswilrod, Marienburg.

Ruprecht stood there a while, re-reading the notice, deep in thought. It was, he concluded, a perfect opportunity. Not only could he sell his boat for some gold, but he could actually get paid for travelling back to Talabheim. He could leave miserable Thurk behind, start over again plying his trade on the Taal, sweeping away the years with van Diesl and their bloody ending.

The only problem was Ursula. He would never be able to convince her to come with him. He was also sure that, when he was gone, she would soon starve to death out in the marsh. She was capable of looking after herself, but her self-inflicted solitude had robbed her of all inclination to hunt game or go fishing. If Ruprecht hadn’t visited her regularly over the past year, her bones would be laying out there in the Cursed Marsh, picked at by worms and fish.

And yet, how long was he supposed to kick his heels in this cesspit of a village, waiting for her? Ever since she had rescued him from Leitzig, he had been a faithful companion to her. On the weeks of trekking to Erengrad, he had helped her, clothed her, fed her. It had been his idea not to return to the Ostermark, to take ship at Erengrad to avoid possible pursuit by the Osterknacht, and possibly other witch hunters. Without him, she wouldn’t have even reached the fens, he realised. He had cajoled her, argued with her, tried everything to persuade her to start living properly again, earning her scorn numerous times, and all to no good end.

Perhaps, without him as a crutch, she’d be forced to fend for herself, he thought. Starvation has a way of focussing the mind better than any prayers. When her hunger got too much, she would realise what she was doing to herself.

But no matter how much he tried to justify it, Ruprecht knew he was simply coming up with excuses to leave. Any way he looked at it, he was deserting her, leaving her to the whim of the gods. The thought made him sick and guilty. All her life she had been abandoned by the very people who should have looked after her, and he was about to do the same.

It didn’t matter though, he had made up his mind. If Ursula wanted to waste away in this forgotten marsh, then he couldn’t stop her. He wasn’t going to stay here to rot away his life.

With a heavy heart, Ruprecht trudged back to his lodgings. He mumbled something to Frau Bergen before hiding himself behind his curtain and then lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. As much as it pained him, he knew that if he didn’t leave now, he never would. For all his concern for Ursula, for all the hardships they had suffered together, he was still going to leave. He had done enough by her, had saved her from death and risked his own life in the doing. Now it was time for Ruprecht to look after himself and perhaps find some happiness in his life once more.

The only question was whether he was going to tell her. Would he slip away like a thief, leaving her to wonder what had become of him, or was he going to take his boat up there tomorrow and simply tell her. She would be understanding, she would tell him that it was the right thing to do. She would probably even smile, wish him luck,give him a hug and say she was glad for him. And, in all likelihood, she would be telling the truth, and that was what cut him to the core. Naïve, trusting and loyal, Ursula would genuinely support Ruprecht, not knowing that it would make it easier on him if she called him a traitor and cursed his name. At least that way, parting would be less sorrowful.

But he had to tell her, it wasn’t his way to skulk away. It was punishment for his betrayal, his own penance for abandoning her. For a moment, he wondered if this was how Ursula felt all the time, why she shut herself away from everyone. It didn’t seem so foolish now that he was wracked with self-loathing and doubt.

Tomorrow, he told himself as the regular snoring of Frau Bergen soothed him into sleep. Tomorrow I’ll tell her.

The bang of the door and a sudden coldness woke Ruprecht, and he could hear the wind outside and the hammer of rain on the roof. Jumping up, he snatched up his warhammer, which lay next to his mattress, and shouldered aside the curtain.

In the middle of the kitchen, soaked to the skin, her dress covered in mud and grass, stood Ursula. Her face was flushed, her hair matted with filth and weeds, her eyes a mad stare.

‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’ Ruprecht said, hearing Frau Bergen stirring in her room behind him.

‘Nothing’s wrong, nothing!’ said Ursula. ‘It wasn’t a vision, but he sent me a sign all the same.’

‘A sign?’ Ruprecht was confused. ‘From who? What kind of sign?’

‘Sigmar has sent me a sign, telling me what I should do,’ Ursula’s chest heaved as she panted for breath. ‘This floated to my door yesterday. It’s a sign! You were right, we have to go back to Marienburg!’

In her hand, she held out a crumpled piece of sodden paper.

CHAPTER FOUR

SEA OF CLAWS

Spring 1711

Wind whistled through the rigging of the Graf Suiden in time to the heavy lapping of the waves against the greatship’s hull. Overhead, a clear blue sky stretched to the horizon, broken by scudding grey clouds. To the south, just along the horizon, lay the coast of the north-western lands of the Empire. The shouts of the bosun and his mates roared out over the sounds of the ship as they passed the order for the crew to tack. The hands came scurrying up from below deck, turning out to their stations, eyes turned towards the quarterdeck where their captain, Edouard Leerdamme, stood surveying the performance of his crew.

One of the few privateer captains not to have joined the Count of Marienburg’s new navy, Leerdamme earned his fortune hunting pirates and selling captured ships for prize money offered by the count. He was known with grudging respect as the Butcher Captain, for his uncanny ability to find battle every time he and his crew ventured forth. In navy parlance, the list of killed and wounded was called the butcher’s bill, and Captain Leerdamme charged highly, and ventured forth frequently. Despite the obvious dangers, there was never a shortage of sailors volunteering to fight for him, for those that survived could earn considerable prize money in just two or three stints on board.

‘Bring her onto the starboard tack, Master Verhoen,’ the captain told his officer of the watch, casting a glance at the squat man next to him.

Verhoen nodded in acknowledgement. Striding the rail at the front of the quarterdeck, he began to bellow orders to the officers below. Leerdamme began to count under his breath, watching the proceedings carefully. The men heaved on the ropes, as Lucas Verhoen gave swift commands to the hand at the wheel.

‘Steady there, you hasty dog!’ he heard the master curse as the steersman turned too fast and the sails began to flap dangerously at the lack of wind. ‘Back a point!’

With the rumble of rope through blocks and sheaves, and the creak of the rigging under the pressure, the Graf Suiden slowed and swung ponderously to starboard. For a moment her motion was almost completely checked, all way lost as she passed through the eye of the wind, and the forecastle dipped dangerously downwards, the bow crashing heavily into the waves.

Leerdamme was about to step forward and take command, lest the sails be taken aback against the mast and the whole ship caught in irons, when the massive vessel slipped into the trough of a wave and heeled over, swinging around to starboard with enough force to tumble a few of the less steady sailors from their feet. With a booming crash, she rode over the wave, her bowsprit pointing high in the air, and then plunged down the far side with a great wash of water rising up over the forecastle. Leerdamme swayed with the movement, suppressing a laugh as Verhoen grabbed the rail to steady himself.

‘Hogs like a dog at its bowl, don’t she now!’ Leerdamme said to the ship’s master as he pushed himself upright.

‘Johan Haukes has a lot to damn well answer for, with his new-fangled designs, that’s for sure,’ Verhoen said.

‘Ah, hush now, Lucas, she’s the finest ship to be built in the last fifty years, and you know it,’ the captain said with a wink. ‘None faster or turn quicker than this beautiful bitch!’

They watched the hands make fast and then file down below.

‘So how long was it this time?’ Lucas asked, turning to the captain. ‘Felt slower to me.’

‘I don’t bloody well know how long it took,’ said Leerdamme, his smile gone. ‘You well made me lose count when you had the maincourse flapping faster than your sister’s lips!’

‘A month out of Marienburg, with a new ship and half a new crew, what do you expect?’ said Verhoen. ‘Manaan himself would be hard pressed to tack properly.’

‘Don’t blaspheme, Lucas,’ said Leerdamme with a scowl. ‘I’m going to tack them back and forth the length of the Sea of Claws if they don’t get it right. Officers and men don’t have their drinks ration until they get it right, you tell them that and watch them jump.’

Leerdamme stomped across the quarterdeck and down the steps to his cabin, and Verhoen winced as he heard the door slamming, rattling the frame.

‘Call the order to tack, Herr Gringen,’ the master called to his mate. ‘Let’s do it again!’

For another week, the Graf Suiden forged north-east along the coast of the Empire, while Leerdamme put his officers repeatedly through their paces. On the fortieth day since leaving Marienburg, a hail from the masthead brought the captain up to the deck.

‘What do you see?’ Leerdamme shouted up to the man, his deep bellow easily carrying over the wind.

‘Something to south-east. Looks like smoke,’ came the man’s reply.

‘Get my eyeglass,’ Leerdamme told Verhoen, taking hold of the rigging. He looked up at the mast as it circled across the leaden sky, a wave of giddiness threatening to send him tumbling to the deck. As the master returned with his telescope, he rammed it through his belt and began to climb.

‘Should never have been a bloody sailor,’ he muttered to himself, as he hauled himself up hand over hand. ‘Should’ve been a baker. No stupid heights, being a baker. No climbing up a tree trunk in a gale if you’re a baker. Should’ve sent Lucas to have a look. Prideful Leerdamme, that’s what they’ll call me when I fall off this mast and make a bloody mess on the deck. Butcher Captain, not likely. Look like something fit for the butcher’s dog more likely. Please Manaan, don’t have a fit now and start tossing me about. Better bloody well shut up, you damn fool.’

The sailor was sitting easily on the cross trees of the topgallant yard, his legs hooked under the beam, both arms free.

‘Where’s this bloody smoke then?’ Leerdamme asked, keeping his gaze level. He could see the darker smudge of the coastline to the south, and then followed the hand’s pointing finger further east. There was a darkness about the sky, and he pulled the eyeglass from his belt with his free hand.

‘Shift, give me somewhere to steady myself,’ he snapped at the sailor, who quickly rose up and walked a little further out on the yard, steadying himself on the guide rope with one hand. Leerdamme occupied the vacated position, clamping his legs around the yardarm, his stubbled chin resting against the masthead itself. Wrapping his right arm around the girth of the mast, he pulled the telescope up to his left eye and closed the other. Adjusting the focus with his right hand, he scanned across the cliff tops and beaches, trying to locate the smoke again.

He growled to himself when he found it, bringing it into view with a twist of his hand. He could make out three or four plumes of smoke rising from a group of buildings clustered around a shallow headland.

Snapping the eyeglass shut, he shoved it back into his belt and began the long clamber down, accompanied by a similar soliloquy of cursing and self-condemnation. Feeling the solid planking of the deck beneath his feet, he gave a small sigh, whispered a thanks to Manaan and turned to Verhoen.

‘Smoke alright,’ he said to the master. ‘Beat to quarters, Lucas and bear us towards the coast, about six miles on. Don’t heave off the boats just yet, have the balinger and longboat readied for shore duty just in case.’

‘Aye, captain,’ Lucas said with a nod. Turning, he bellowed an order to the bosun, who in turn yelled down into the decks below. A few seconds later, the ship’s two cabin boys appeared, hefting their drums with them. With a glance at each other, they began to rap out a staccato beat and soon the hands were swarming up from below, chattering to each other.

‘Herr Verhoen,’ Leerdamme said. ‘If the crew don’t bloody stop gabbling like whores at a royal wedding, I’m going to have one in five of them up on the bowsprit. Is that clear?’

‘Cease your chatter!’ said Verhoen, striding to the front rail. ‘Bosun, have your mates take their rods to the back of any man who speaks out of turn!’

The Graf Suiden coasted slowly and quietly east, the lapping sound of the waves accompanied by the occasional squeak of a rope in a block, and Master Verhoen’s short commands to the sailors at the wheel. Leerdamme looked down from the quarterdeck at his crew, silently pleased with the discipline they had shown. For many, this was the first time the drums had been beaten in earnest and the drill of the last few weeks was paying off. The gun crews idled next to their cannons, occasionally blowing on a glowing fuse, or peering out of the gunports.

Glancing over the gunwhale to starboard, the captain spied an out-thrust of the cliffs half a mile ahead, the Sea of Claws foaming white and ferocious at its feet. Taking stock of the wind, which was carrying steadily over the port quarter, he turned to Verhoen.

‘Shorten sail, Lucas, take in the t’gallants, we’re making too much leeway at the moment,’ he told the ship’s master quietly. ‘The chart shows there’s rocks quite far out round these parts, so let’s not founder and make fools of ourselves.’

‘Aye, captain,’ Verhoen replied before turning and bellowing orders down to the decks below.

With practiced efficiency, the hands raced up the rigging to the topmost yard, while others formed teams at the braces. As Verhoen barked out orders in succession, they hauled up the white and black striped canvas, the hands at the mastheads furling it neatly along the spar. Leerdamme could feel the ship slowing as it lost leeway, and nodded in satisfaction to Lucas.

‘That should do it,’ he said, clasping his hands behind his back. Strolling forward, he stood at the rail and peered up towards the sky. There was perhaps a watch more left of daylight, and clouds were gathering quickly overhead. He felt the breeze becoming brisker against his cheek and knew from experience that stronger winds were coming.

Time passed, and Leerdamme strolled casually back and forth along the leeside of the quarterdeck watching the cliffs. Great birds circled out from the shore, dipping in and out of the ship’s wake in search of fish, their screeching cries whipped away by the strengthening wind.

They passed the first headland, and by now the smoke could clearly be seen by all aboard the ship. A thick black smudge curled away from the shore before being lost to view against the clouds to the south-east.

‘The smoke’s thinning quickly now,’ said Verhoen. ‘That’s not a blaze that was lit this day.’

‘No,’ said Leerdamme. They had probably passed the border from the Wasteland into the Nordland coast, and the thought made the captain uncomfortable. He was in a better position than most seamen would be; his refusal to turn in his Marienburg Letter of Marque for a full naval commission meant that, officially at least, he was not a paid member of Marienburg’s armed forces.

Theoretically, the Wasteland and Nordland were allies at the moment, but Leerdamme knew from the small time he spent at court in Marienburg that the count had been making gestures of friendship to Middenland, currently fighting a sporadic war with the armies of Nordland around the Middle Mountains. A ship flying the colours of Marienburg might be welcomed by shot from a fort along this coast if word of the count’s political dealings became more widely known.

In fact, it occurred to him, the smoke might be the result of some border skirmish between militia or patrols that had become over-eager, in which case he would happily continue his patrol along the Sea of Claws and leave them to it. However, Leerdamme suspected that it was something more serious, and that a deadly enemy was probably close at hand.

The tension on the ship grew as they glided around the next headland. It was sheer-sided and towered above the masthead, giving no sight of the cove that lay beyond. At the top of the cliff could be seen the square silhouette of a fort, thin trails of smoke lifting into the air from the casemates. Leerdamme had reduced the ship down to topsails only as they ghosted along, and gave the order for the soldiers to stand ready by the boats to heave them down to the water and out of harm’s way. Their clumping boots drowned out the patter of the mariners’ bare feet as they swarmed across the deck trimming the sails to pull the Graf Suiden into the bay beyond. They were tight in against the cliffs, only a few hundred yards, Leerdamme hoping that if an enemy did lurk beyond the advantage of surprise would be his. Unfortunately, that meant that he also had no idea if there was anything waiting for them. He ran through possible encounters in his head, mentally preparing the orders he would need if they were to run into a vessel coming the other way or, more preferably, if they found a foe at anchor.

The captain stood at the centre of the quarterdeck resisting the urge to go forward and stand at the prow so that he might sooner see what lay beyond the outcrop. Just in front and to the captain’s left, Verhoen fiddled at the seams of his breeches in agitation, and a few worried murmurs could be heard here and there amongst the crew. Leerdamme watched the crew at the bowchasers – their reaction would tell him what awaited the ship sooner than he would see himself.

Muttering started at the prow and slowly worked its way aftwards as the Graf Suiden cleared the headland. Leerdamme relaxed – if there had been an enemy, he would have expected shouts rather than whispers. Then he could see for himself. A deep bay, perhaps a mile wide and half a mile deep, stretched away to his right, a long beach of sand along the shore. It was clear except for the floating wreckage of a handful of fishing vessels, the hull of one pointing nearly straight up out of the shallows, masts and sails flung along the beach by the rising tide.

At the centre of the bay was a solitary island, a tall pinnacle of bare rock, perhaps a third of a mile away. Leerdamme could see movement at its peak, fluttering flocks of gulls and other seabirds. Not far back from the shore were the remains of a village, blackened and gutted by fire, a few blazes still evident in the tall steeple of its Sigmarite temple. Pulling out his eyeglass, he scanned along the shore for signs of the inhabitants, but could see nothing except circling ravens and a pack of scrawny dogs roaming between the burnt-out buildings.

‘Ready for anchor!’ he bellowed, and the crew rushed to their places at the lanyards and masts. ‘Anchor aweigh!’

With the thunder of the heavy cable through the hawser, the anchor plunged down and into the sea with a splash.

‘Bring her into the wind,’ he ordered the steersmen, before calling out once again to the crew. ‘Bring in all sail! Lower the boats!’

He turned to Verhoen. The master was staring at the shoreline, still suspecting some lurking danger, his fingers fidgeting at the edges of his doublet pockets.

‘Lucas,’ the captain addressed him, and he snapped out of his reverie, turning towards Leerdamme. ‘Take a party to that island, twelve seamen and half the soldiers. I’ll lead the shore party.’

‘Aye, captain,’ Verhoen nodded and snapped around on his heel, bellowing for sergeant Kulnenkeist.

The triangular lateen sail of the longboat flapped noisily in the eddying wind that came around the twin headlands of the bay, and Leerdamme snarled wordlessly at the bosun’s mate at the tiller. Flinching, the sailor pulled harder on the rudder to keep the balinger at the best angle to the fluctuating wind.

They were a couple of hundred yards from the shore and Leerdamme was convinced that no one was alive in the village. Anybody on the shore would have had ample time to signal the ship, as it swayed at its anchor quite plainly in view out in the bay. That didn’t mean they were all dead, he consoled himself weakly. The settlement had been completely sacked, and it was likely that any inhabitants would have fled the attack, and, having seen the devastation wrought, made their way to a neighbouring village.

The silence from the fort, on the other hand, worried Leerdamme considerably. Without thinking, he patted the heavy pistol at his belt to reassure himself, and loosened his cutlass in its scabbard.

The crew leapt over the sides to drag the boat further up the shore as the seabed rapidly shoaled up to the beach. Leerdamme stayed where he was, seated in the sternsheets, while a small party of soldiers, half with halberds, the others with crossbows, made their way over the sand to the edge of the village. Sergeant Kulnenkeist signalled that it was safe with a wave of his hand and Leerdamme stood up, straightening his frock coat and stepping confidently into the sea that washed up the beach. His hands clasped at the small of his back, he strode up the sandy shore, his eyes taking in every detail they could.

Two small jetties jutted out several dozen yards into the sea, just to his right, littered with nets, fraying tackle, crab baskets and barrels. To his left, the stretch of sand was littered with flotsam from the wrecked fishing boats – tangles of more netting, snapped spars and masts, torn and burned sailcloth scattered by the waves and wind. Ahead of him was a squat stone building, its slate roof scorched but still intact, soot marks around the windows. Beyond that lay the bulk of the village, or what was left of it. A few of the larger timbers lay in piles of charred earth, and piles of cracked bricks denoted where sturdier walls had once stood.

Leerdamme walked between the shattered skeletons of houses and taverns, past the ruins of a water mill, parts of its smashed wheel strewn along a small brook that emptied into the bay. He choked on the ash and smoke that hung in the air, and it clung to his clothes, covering his blue coat and white breeches in a thin layer of soot.

The only things he couldn’t see were any corpses…

He heard an angry grunt behind him and turned. Kieter van der Stree, his bosun for the last six years, was picking through the scorched remnants of what appeared to have been a storehouse. The air was still hot and sweat prickled on his bald, bullet head. Kieter shouldered aside a smouldering beam with his squat frame and bent down to pick something up. He held it up for Leerdamme to see – a splintered haft topped by the shattered remnants of a long axe blade.

‘Norse,’ spat the bosun, tossing the broken weapon back into the ruins.

‘Who did you think it was?’ roared Leerdamme, finally giving vent to the tension and anger that had been building since he had first seen the smoke. ‘Elves? Dwarfs? Bretonnians? Of course it was the bloody Norse!’

Kieter’s heavily scarred face screwed up in dismay, and Leerdamme immediately regretted his outburst. The bosun had fought beside him in many battles, and he had seemed impervious to it all, but Leerdamme realised that Kieter was just as sickened by what they had found as the captain was.

‘Have you seen any dead?’ Leerdamme asked, looking from the bosun to the soldiers and sailors that trailed in their wake. ‘Any of you?’

They all shook their heads in answer, some shrugging, others casting their eyes down or making protective signs.

‘Split up and search properly, there could be someone trapped, or wounded,’ he ordered the group. Max ‘Sorely’ Villisson, Leerdamme’s chief officer who would have qualified as a lieutenant had he ever been inclined to take a commission, organised them into groups of threes and fours and directed them to different parts of the settlement. Watching them go, the officer turned to Leerdamme, a distant look on his face. ‘Should we go up to the fort?’ he asked.

Leerdamme was momentarily taken aback by the question, as Villisson was generally work-shy and not known for his initiative. His a habit of being someplace else whenever there was work to be done that had earned him the nickname ‘Sorely’, short for ‘sorely missed’. However, the wiry Middenlander was a keen swordsman and had a good eye for the weather, which was unusual for someone with such a landlocked birthplace, so Leerdamme was happy to keep him around.

‘We’ll wait for Lucas and the others, just in case,’ Leerdamme replied after a moment’s thought. He wasn’t quite sure what he expected to find at the fort, but he was damn sure he was going to have as many men around him as possible when he found it.

‘Do you think they all ran away when they sighted the longship?’ ventured Sorely, obviously still thinking, in his slow way, about the lack of bodies.

‘They might have done, but if they did they would have fled to the shorefort,’ said Leerdamme, pointing up to the headland. The smoke that continued to drift upwards from the small castle illustrated what he thought would have happened afterwards.

The answer to the mystery was more gruesome than Leerdamme would ever have considered. After they had quartered and searched the village, Leerdamme sent two small parties into the surrounding countryside to look for survivors or even just tracks to indicate someone had managed to get away. Leerdamme could see Villisson leading his group back across a muddy field, and Kieter had just returned with his men, with nothing to report, when splashing from the shore drew his attention.

He had been on the steps that led up to the chapel of Morr, god of the dead. The gardens surrounding the temple had been desecrated, graves dug up, though there was no sign of the bodies that had lain within, only empty shrouds and coffins. The captain had not plucked up the stomach to venture inside to look at the crypts that lay beneath.

Verhoen came walking slowly across the square, a ragtag trail of soldiers and sailors behind him. There was a strange look in his eye and many of the rest of the party were ashen-faced. Some had stains on their clothes that betrayed the fact that they had vomited, while others had faces streaked with tears.

‘What?’ was all the question Leerdamme could muster when confronted by the panicked stare of the ship’s master.

‘The island…’ Lucas replied, mumbling almost to himself. ‘The island, we found something there. We found the villagers.’

Leerdamme’s stomach lurched at the thought. He was about to ask if they had found any alive, but stopped before saying anything. It was obvious from the men’s expressions that the answer was no. He didn’t speak, allowing Verhoen to muster his own thoughts first.

‘I’ve never seen…’ the master began, but choked on the words before he could finish. He drooped his head, coughed a couple of times and then purposefully stood bolt upright. He straightened his doublet and smoothed out the creases in his necktie, collecting his senses.

‘Take your time Lucas,’ Leerdamme assured him. The other men in his party were now talking to the rest of the crew, and there were shouts of anger and cries of dismay. Amongst them was Lader, the ship’s surgeon. He sat on the ground, holding his head in his hands, his shoulders trembling.

‘We found the villagers on the island,’ Verhoen said, choosing his words with care. ‘The raiders appear to have taken them all there, upwards of a hundred of them, some dead, some wounded. There were many other bodies there as well.’

Leerdamme pointedly looked over his shoulder towards the ransacked gardens of Morr, and Lucas nodded in realisation. Verhoen closed his eyes, wiped his face and pinched his nose, shuddering at the memory.

‘The live ones had been staked and tied down,’ he continued, looking his captain straight in the eye, his stare unwavering. Leerdamme could see despair turning to anger in his expression, and Lucas’s manner became more heated. ‘They had been staked down, tied to a body and smeared with blood and guts. They were left there for the carrion eaters.’

‘All dead?’ the captain finally asked, and Lucas’s anger was replaced by the haunted look he had shown earlier.

‘Some were alive, perhaps two dozen, I didn’t count exactly,’ Verhoen said with a sad shake of his head. ‘But there was no saving them, Lader did what he could. They were too eaten up, or almost dead of thirst. We had to search the whole mess, the whole mess, to make sure we didn’t miss any! They’re with Morr now.’

A tear appeared in Lucas’s eye and he began to shake. Leerdamme glanced at the rest of the crew and saw that they were all looking in his direction, waiting for his orders, expecting his guidance. Those that had accompanied Verhoen looked at each other with knowing glances, and avoided the gaze of the others, shaking their heads.

‘Steady yourself, Lucas, the men are watching,’ said Leerdammer. ‘We have to be strong for them.’

‘Sorry, captain, so sorry,’ Lucas said, head bowed.

‘What did you do with the dead?’ Leerdamme asked.

‘The men were starting to get sick,’ explained Verhoen. ‘Me too, for that matter. We had to leave them there.’

‘We’ll deal with them later,’ the captain said to Lucas, patting him on the shoulder. He pointed out over the village towards the fort on the headland. ‘First of all, we find out what happened there.’

The great wooden gates to the fort were open, their planks splintered, the shattered bar hanging in two pieces from the brackets. The inside of the great open square was like the village, with signs of fighting and burning everywhere but devoid of bodies. Soot coated the inside of the stone walls and, in their emplacements overlooking the bay, the castle’s three brass cannons were tipped onto their trunions. Broken halberds, shattered swords, mangled hand guns and dented shields lay amongst the smoking timbers and piles of rubble. All that remained of the barracks, storehouse and stables in the courtyard were twisted, blackened nails and charred timbers.

‘What kind of vile bastard would do this?’ Kieter asked, rubbing at his scalp. He stood with Leerdamme and Verhoen just inside the gates, as the rest of the crew that were ashore picked through the wreckage. ‘And a mad devil at that, attacking a fort. Any Norseman with any sense wouldn’t come within a mile and a half of this place, he must have been mad.’

‘Or very cunning, and very brave,’ countered Lucas.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Leerdamme. ‘What have you seen?’

Lucas pointed to the shattered portal.

‘Most of the splinters and blows are on this side of the gates,’ he explained. ‘It was attacked from inside the fort, not outside.’

‘What does that mean?’ Leerdamme said, noting that the master was right, there were clearly many swordblows and axe marks on the interior of the gateway.

‘The defenders got trapped inside, and the gate was barred from outside and they tried to chop their way out…’ Lucas said softly. ‘They must have come in over the walls.’

‘But how?’ asked Kieter. ‘First of all they would have to dare the shot of the cannons, then climb the cliff face, and even if they managed that, they would have to scale the walls in the face of shot and halberd. No men could do that, surely.’

‘Who can say,’ Leerdamme said with a shrug. ‘The ways of the Norse are strange, and who can tell what dark powers they drew upon to aid them here. There’s nothing more to be doing here.’

‘What now then?’ asked Verhoen.

‘We deal with the dead and then make way,’ Leerdamme told them. ‘Gather the men up and muster back at the boats.’

‘Is there nothing else we can do?’ Kieter said, kicking bitterly at the debris.

‘Yes there is,’ Leerdamme replied softly. ‘This happened yesterday, which means the bloody devils that did this can’t be too far away. The Graf Suiden is faster than any longship, and I’m going to scour the coast until I find them and make them pay.’

They were just leaving when Sorely jogged over to catch up. His expression showed he was perturbed.

‘Found something odd, captain,’ he reported as Leerdamme turned to him.

‘Well, spit it out,’ the captain snarled when the officer remained silent.

‘The magazine was burned to the ground,’ Sorely told them.

‘So’s everything else, what’s your damn point?’ Leerdamme pressed him.

‘If it was torched, then the powder would have gone up, blowing the whole fort to pieces,’ explained Sorely. ‘So that means they must have taken it before they put the place to the torch.’

‘What in the name of the gods do Norse want with black powder?’ exclaimed Leerdamme. ‘They haven’t taken any guns have they? Gods, I hope not!’

‘No, it looks like they just broke everything, judging by what I found left,’ replied Sorely.

‘Well, I’ll be sure to ask the bastards when I find them,’ Leerdamme said, giving a nod to Sorely. ‘Let’s just get about making that happen, shall we?’

For four days, the Graf Suiden prowled along the coast seeking the raiders. This early into spring, Leerdamme expected the Norse to have continued south and westwards, rather than returning home. Keeping close to the land, they sailed into every cove and estuary looking for signs of the raiders, but the search had so far proved fruitless.

‘Perhaps they headed back to Norsca,’ suggested Verhoen as dawn broke on the fifth day. He had come up onto deck for his watch and found his captain pacing the quarterdeck, as he had done for each previous day. Verhoen wondered if Leerdamme had actually slept at all.

‘Then we have nothing to lose by heading back towards Marienburg,’ countered the captain.

‘If they’ve gone east, they could be preying on the Nordland coast as we sail further and further away,’ Verhoen said, gazing towards the shore.

‘Nordland doesn’t pay me for prizes, they can look to their own bloody ships,’ snapped Leerdamme. The thought that he had let the raiders slip away had been gnawing at him for the last four days, and he felt responsible for any heinous act they might commit until he caught them.

‘You don’t think that,’ argued Verhoen, turning to his friend. ‘You’ve never thought like that.’

Leerdamme sighed and stretched.

‘I’m going to look like a fool if we don’t find them,’ he admitted. ‘Keep the lookouts sharp, I’m going to catch some sleep for the rest of the watch.’

Lucas Verhoen watched his captain trudge down the steps to the deck below, and yawned heavily. The ship was quiet, the weather had held fair for the night, and the sky was grey and cloudy but not unduly worrying. As he looked at the green-topped cliffs, dipping occasionally into inlets and marshy bays, he took a deep breath of the salty air and closed his eyes. Not for the first time, he was glad he had chosen to be a sailor and not a cobbler like his father.

It was not long after noon that the lookout at the mainmast gave a shout, prompting excited agitation amongst the crew, who were lounging on the deck whittling at wood and bones, or playing dice with each other for their rations of drink.

‘Sail to the south-west,’ Verhoen reported to Leerdamme, who had thundered up the stairs on hearing the cry through his cabin’s skylight.

‘I’ve just been looking at the charts,’ the captain grinned. ‘There’s shoals out to half a mile, about ten miles ahead. If we can keep them close to shore, we can run them aground. Set the t’gallants, then clear for action. Let’s catch these bloody-handed scum!’

As the officers passed on Verhoen’s shouted commands, Leerdamme made his way down the stairs to the deck below and slowly walked the length of the ship. Under his feet, the ship reverberated to the footfalls of five hundred crewman running back and forth, breaking down the bulkheads that made up the officers’ cabins, stowing hammocks, dousing the galley fires, running the guns back for loading, swinging the boats over the side to be towed astern and the dozens of other tasks required to get the greatship ready for battle. It was disciplined chaos for several minutes, while Leerdamme watched the bellowing bosun and his mates, gun captains reporting to the magazine for their fuses, the gun crews throwing buckets of sand onto the red decking to improve the grip of their bare feet.

As the gun captains each raised their hands to indicate their readiness, Leerdamme strode up the steps leading to the maindeck, and then on up into the forecastle. There, the two long bowchaser cannons were laid out in readiness, the gun crews crouched nearby, alert and ready.

‘Everything set, Kueger?’ Leerdamme asked one of the gun captains. He knew them all well, they were hand-picked from the best of the crew. With most of her prizes taken from outrunning Norse raiders, it was important that the Graf Suiden’s bowchasers were fired quickly and accurately to cripple the enemy vessel from afar and allow the less manoeuvrable greatship to close in and bring her full weight of iron to bear.

‘Aye, cap’n, just waitin’ on the order to run out,’ Kueger told him, patting the barrel of the brass cannon. ‘You reckon them’s the ones what raided the village?’

‘Certain of it,’ Leerdamme replied grimly. He paced forward to peer out of the open gun port. There was nothing to see except an endless vista of white-flecked waves and grey sky. The captain squatted there for a long while, head nearly full out of the port as he looked left and right along the horizon, desperately seeking some sign of the Norse vessel.

Then, there was a movement just above the waves, slightly to port, close inshore.

‘Pass the word for Master Verhoen to bring my spyglass,’ he said to the gun crew, standing up as far as the roof of the forecastle would allow. The message rippled back down the ship and it was not long before he could see Lucas approaching through the gloom of the gun deck. The master proffered the eyeglass with a nod, and then turned and headed back to resume his position at the wheel.

‘Wait for the order,’ he reminded the crew as he strode up the hatch onto the foredeck. The crew there shuffled aside from their place at the jib to allow him up to the rail. Leaning forward precariously, Leerdamme, raised the eyeglass and looked out over the port bow.

There was a flash of colour, and Leerdamme steadied himself as he focussed the telescope. It was unmistakably a red and white striped sail, about two miles away. Shoving the eyeglass into his belt, the captain bellowed back towards the quarterdeck.

‘Bring her another point to larboard,’ he yelled, pointing over the rail. There was a wave of acknowledgement from Verhoen and the crew jumped to his orders to trim the sails to the new heading. On their present course, as they closed in on the Norse vessel, they would be seaward of the raider. The only problem was the wind. At the moment the raiders were heading into the wind on the starboard tack, keeping them away from the cliffs. They couldn’t change to the port tack for fear of drifting too far to leeward and crashing on the shore, and to turn further to starboard would leave them crosswise to the Graf Suiden, and easy prey for her guns. If the Norse managed to clear the shoals, however, the coast took a turn to the south, giving them much more room to tack and head to port. The Graf Suiden had to close before that happened, and that meant the bowchasers would have to carry away some rigging, or hole her, or, more preferably, both.

Confident that Verhoen could keep the ship on course and at best speed, Leerdamme headed back to the forecastle to stand with the gun crews. They waited patiently, casting their gaze out of the port, looking occasionally at their gun captains and Leerdamme.

Conscious of their looks, Leerdamme affected an expression of indifference, patiently waiting for Verhoen to close the range. He constantly fought the urge to peer out of the port, knowing that the gun captains were keeping a sharp eye and would tell him as soon as they felt that it was worth laying the guns.

‘Reckon we might give it a go now, captain,’ said Stielen, the captain of the port gun. Leerdamme bent down and cast a look through the port. The prow of the Graf Suiden was rising and dipping rapidly in the waves, spray occasionally spattering through the port.

‘Pass the word to shorten sail to topsails,’ he said to Kueger, who hollered the command up to the top deck. ‘It’ll be easier to lay your shots if we stop hogging this much.’

‘Aye, captain, it will,’ agreed Stielen, taking a glance along the polished length of the cannon’s barrel. ‘Reckon we might put another quoit in, captain.’

‘Wait for the range to shorten and fire on the swell,’ Leerdamme replied. Although the long guns could fire a considerable distance, he preferred not to tire out the crews with unnecessary pot shots at long range. Also, with every shot fired there was always a chance that something might go wrong – the cannon could crack, it could blow the touchhole, hurt one of the crew, break a cable or any of a number of other potential disasters that befell an unlucky or careless gun crew. ‘Try to carry the yard or some stays, get her to founder as we come up on the weather side.’

The gun captains nodded in agreement, faces split with vicious grins. Since their grim discoveries in the sacked village, Leerdamme had heard constant oaths from the sailors and soldiers to avenge the dead villagers, and certainly the gun crews seemed eager enough to bring the raiders to justice. Soon, they would get the chance.

The Norse vessel could now be seen with the naked eye, a splash of red and white against the grey sky, perhaps a mile distant. Leerdamme glanced out of the port at the coastline, recalling the outline and notes on his chart. About half a mile ahead was a long, low headland that stretched several hundred yards out, its rocky feet extending even further into the sea. Beyond that, rocky outcrops lay just beneath the surface, ready to catch an unwary ship. It was there that the Graf Suiden would trap the raider, provided they could get to seaward of her first.

‘Reckon it’s no more than three parts of a mile now, captain,’ reported Stielen without further comment.

‘Very well, Stielen, Kueger, load and prepare to fire,’ Leerdamme told them. ‘I’m up to the foredeck, listen out for instructions.’

‘Course, cap’n,’ Kueger replied with a knuckle to his forehead. Leerdamme had insisted he stopped the sign of deference, for the captain was of no more noble blood than Kueger, but a childhood on the Count of Marienburg’s own estate had ingrained the habit into the man to the point that he would knuckle down to any superior.

Looking at the maindeck, he saw the whole crew straining to look forward, those who could were lining the gunwhales or peering out of the gun ports.

‘We’ll be giving those bloody Norse a taste of iron in a moment, lads!’ Leerdamme bellowed to them, raising a cheer. ‘When we’ve knocked the wind out of the sails, I want you brave men to give them everything you’ve got, so that Sergeant Kulnenkeist and his men can go over the side and finish them off!’

Leerdamme heard the rumbling of the bowchasers’ trucks beneath him, and peered over the rail to see the two long guns with their muzzles pointing out either side of the bowsprit.

‘Fire when you can lay your target,’ he shouted down to the gun crews. He pulled free his eyeglass and trained it on the Norse ship. ‘Listen for my report.’

He waited for a moment, feeling the deck rising and falling beneath him, easily riding the waves with his legs braced wide, the inverted image of the longship wavering in the spyglass.

The port gun roared, flame leapt forward and smoke billowed up over the prow, sweeping past Leerdamme. He saw a splash some hundred yards short and fifty yards starboard of the raider. Coughing to clear his throat, he called down to Kueger.

‘Port fifty, reach one hundred,’ he told the gun captain. ‘Stielen, there’s a big swell coming, wait for my order.’

‘I’ll gi’ her a li’l more powder next one,’ came Kueger’s shouted reply.

The Graf Suiden pitched into a low trough, the circle of the eyeglass filled with foaming sea for a moment until the prow began to rise. Adjusting the focus lever, Leerdamme caught the Norse ship again, directly ahead. She was turning to starboard, heading seaward. Obviously they knew about the reefs, or perhaps had seen some sign of them, and were trying to reach more open sea. That they knew they were under attack was no doubt: he could see small figures at the sides of the ship, waving weapons and fists.

‘Fire!’ he bellowed as the greatship lifted up onto the crest of the wave. The report from the gun echoed up through the hatch and Leerdamme fancied he saw the blur of the shot as it flew through the rigging of the longship. The sail began to flap heavily and he saw the Norse sailors scurrying around the deck, trying to fix the damage.

‘Little bit lower next time, but well done,’ Leerdamme told both crews, dropping the telescope from his eye and relaxing. ‘Fire when you’re sure of your shot.’

For several minutes the cannons barked irregularly, and each time Leerdamme raised his eyeglass to survey the damage. They were less than half a mile distant now, and he could see ragged holes in the longship’s stern, and parted cables whipped around wildly from her mast. It wouldn’t be long before they overhauled the raider and the maindeck and gundecks could be brought to bear. Then it would only take one or two broadsides to finish her off ready for boarding. Few Norse had any stomach for a fight after a few ton of shot had swept over their boards.

Suddenly, a great wave rose up in front of the Graf Suiden, appearing from nowhere. Dark and menacing, it seemed to have been sucked up from the sea itself. Leerdamme thought he heard fell voices on the edge of hearing, and could see malign eyes staring at him from the wave. Higher and higher it towered, and in the back of his mind the captain heard cackling voices speaking in a language he didn’t understand. The air seemed to grow hot, and his skin prickled with fear. It all happened in a moment but seemed to last for a lifetime.

The wave rose up to a pinnacle some fifty feet above the bowsprit, a towering mass of water that rushed towards them. What appeared to be a snarling face appeared at its centre, with fangs of froth and eyes like whirlpools.

‘Manaan save us!’ cried Leerdamme, dropping his eyeglass and grabbing the rail.

With a crash like thunder the wave broke over the prow. With a splintering crack the bowsprit snapped in two and was hurled aboard, spitting two crewmen and flinging their ragged remains to the deck. The water surged in through the open bowchaser ports, tossing the cannons off their trunions and crushing the gun crews. It washed up through the hatch, exploded up through the grating along the main deck in fountains of water and men, overturning cannons, flinging fuse barrels into the air, ripping men from the rigging and crashing around the masts. Leerdamme felt his skin being stripped from his flesh, his arms wrapped around the prow rail, trembling with the strain.

As the wave passed, the Graf Suiden plunged into the deep trough left behind, dropping a hundred feet forwards, throwing men from the mastheads, the masts themselves creaking under the pressure, the stays snapping and whirling, ripping men in two and lacerating limbs from bodies.

‘Manaan save us!’ Leerdamme bellowed again, fearing that one of the masts would go by the boards, ripping up the deck and dooming them all. As the daemonic wave sluiced out of the gunports and over the sides, the bedraggled Leerdamme pulled himself up and looked at the Norse ship. It was cutting out to sea, oars lifting and dipping to help the sail, as the Graf Suiden foundered in her wake. Not far ahead were the reefs, and the ship was listing heavily to port, bringing her closer to the shore with each passing moment.

‘Back the sail, bring her round, let go the sea anchor!’ Leerdamme bellowed, snapping out the orders that would halt the greatship’s progress. He stared venomously at the diminishing shape of the longship.

‘I’ll get you bastards yet!’ he roared, fist raised. ‘By Manaan’s own salty balls, I’ll bloody find you!’

CHAPTER FIVE

GREAT OCEAN

Spring 1711

The jeering cries of the Norsemen at the oars rang in Kurt’s ears as he watched the Imperial greatship disappearing astern. Beside him, Jakob was curled up on the deck, blood running from his nose and ears. He rocked back and forth, spittle dribbling down his chin into his blood-matted beard. The shaman’s spell had been powerful, more powerful than he had anticipated, and the price he had paid was heavy. He stared up with unseeing eyes as Kurt crouched down and laid a hand on his shoulder.

‘By the gods, Jakob, that was a worthy display,’ Kurt told the incapacitated shaman. ‘I never knew you had so much power. I think that the sacrifice of the fishermen and the militia really bought us some favour with the gods!’

Jakob’s eyes slowly focussed, and he croaked hoarsely coughing up blood. He shook his head slowly from side to side, sweat dripping from him. At his feet his scattered runestones lay still, smoking gently, a burned circle left on the deck evidence of the magical energy unleashed in the summoning of the wave.

‘Get him some water,’ Kurt shouted, and Bjordrin responded, running over to the water butt and dipping a clay goblet into the barrel. He carried it back to Jakob and dribbled a few drops on the shaman’s lips. With a splutter, Jakob sat up, brushing aside Kurt’s hand and snatching the goblet. He downed the contents in one long draught and let the cup fall from his fingers as he slumped back to the deck.

‘Don’t ask me to do that again,’ he said, his voice cracking, and closed his eyes. An involuntary shudder convulsed Jakob’s body and he rolled over and vomited up the water he had just drunk. ‘Leave me be,’ he said.

Kurt stood and strode out into the middle of the deck, along the central walkway between the longship’s banks of oarsmen. He gave a wordless cheer, raising his arms into the air, and the crew echoed his triumphant yell.

‘Fjaergard!’ Kurt shouted. ‘The gods smile upon us this day! See the devastation wrought by their messenger, enjoy the sweet victory! This is but a minor glory to the victories that await us in Araby.’

There was more cheering as Bjordrin gave the order to ease up on the oars, and the Norsemen stood from their benches, easing tired arms, patting each other on the back and quenching their thirst from the water butts. They then turned their attention to the three dead men who were sprawled on the deck, smashed by the greatship’s cannonballs, and the split rigging and torn sail that flapped constantly against the mast. Without any word from their leaders, they set about preparing the bodies for burial and repairing the damage. Bjordrin came and stood next to Kurt, one eye on the work being carried out.

‘Any sign of Jarlen’s ship?’ Kurt asked, inquiring after the second ship that had set sail with him. In all, fifty-three of the Fjaergard had accompanied the Chosen on his great voyage, nearly two-thirds of the whole village, enough to crew two ships. After the attack on the Nordland fort, Kurt had sent Jarlen and his ship to scout ahead and they were due to meet later that day.

‘He’ll be waiting for us,’ Bjordrin said. ‘We should see him before mid-afternoon.’

Kurt nodded and stood in thought for a moment. Though it had ended well enough, the encounter with the greatship had shaken Kurt. Relaying Bjordrin’s whispered commands, the crew had responded readily enough to his orders, but his inexperience of naval warfare had left Kurt tense and unnerved. If he hadn’t demanded the Jakob raised the daemon seas against the enemy, then the full weight of the greatship’s guns would have reduced them to splinter and bloodied flesh in a single broadside. It was an experience he didn’t want to repeat any time soon.

‘They’ll be after us again soon enough,’ Kurt said to Bjordrin.

‘They’ll be shaken, and not ready for a fight for a time yet, but yes, they can get under way again in short order,’ the Norseman said. ‘They’ll make their other repairs on the way.’

‘Do you think it was a mistake to split our ships?’ Kurt asked, examining Bjordrin’s expression for any sign of disapproval.

‘No, you did the right thing,’ Bjordrin replied. ‘I wouldn’t take four ships against a greatship, never mind two. At least this way, even if we’d been taken, the others would have been able to get back to Fjaergardhold.’

‘I’ll not turn back before we’ve even started,’ Kurt said with a snarl.

‘I didn’t think so,’ Bjordrin said. ‘That’s not what I meant. I mean for us to carry on, and we’ll go wherever you say.’

‘I want us to stop hugging the coast once we’ve met up with Jarlen,’ Kurt said, pacing towards the prow of the ship, Bjordrin keeping step beside him.

‘Crossing the Sea of Claws is one thing,’ said Bjordrin, ‘but heading into the Great Ocean is too much for us.’

‘I want to reach Araby, and I want both ships to get there with as many of the crew left alive as possible,’ Kurt said. ‘This will be the greatest adventure of the Fjaergard, but it’ll never happen if we creep along the coast every mile of the way. Not only is that greatship going to be after us, but we have to go past Marienburg, greatest port of the Old World. Ships put in and out of the Reik by the dozen each week, many of them warships. Even if we make it past the Reik, which we won’t, we still have the rest of the Wasteland with its forts, the long coasts of Bretonnia, the shores of Estalia, to survive.’

‘It is not just the wind and waves of the ocean that you are pitting us against,’ Bjordrin told him with a shake of his head. ‘Out in the deeps, the legends say there are worse things than the warships of men. There is the great kraken that can swallow a ship whole, and the leviathans of Jaenz, great serpents that can scent a man from a hundred miles and will pursue that scent until he is dead.’

‘You sailors always say the same things,’ said Kurt. ‘If all the tales were true then no ship would be able to move for fish-tailed mers, horned sharks, whales the size of buildings and civilisations that lie beneath the waves.’

‘Sneer if you want,’ said Bjordrin with a shrug. ‘We live under the shadow of the gods in Norsca, and we see the things that stalk the forests and mountains, that lie in the caves beneath the world. And even if you dismiss them as children’s tales, then you cannot argue against the fact of the elves.’

‘Elves have not been heard of in these seas since they left the Old World, centuries before the coming of Sigmar,’ Kurt said. The mention of the Empire’s founder made the Norseman snarl, and he kissed his fist and raised it to his forehead in a sign of appeasement to the gods.

‘I will do as you say, but out in the ocean we will be at the mercy of the great powers, so it is best that you don’t offend them with the names of usurpers,’ Bjordrin warned. He turned and walked back down the ship, leaving Kurt to stare out at the wide sea.

It had been twelve days since the run-in with the greatship, and the weather began to worsen. To the west dark clouds blotted the horizon for many miles, slivers of lightning and thunder crashes testament to its ferocity. Bjordrin was anxious, and the shouted messages from Jarlen, when the other longship pulled alongside for a lengthy exchange, voiced similar discontent. But Kurt would not be persuaded to head for the shore, anxious that such a storm might dash them all upon the rocky coast. Bjordrin tried to tell him that the storm would have blown out most of its strength by the time it struck them, but the Chosen warrior would not listen, and Bjordrin silently fumed.

That night, the crew huddled into what cover they could find as the wind whipped over the longship, the waves crashed over the sides onto the deck, and the rain lashed down from the moonless sky. With a tight grip on the rigging, Kurt stood on the weatherside of the longship roaring his defiance into the howling wind.

He could feel the energy of the storm invigorating him, its power flowing into his blood. The longship bucked and heaved on the heavy swells, the rain scoured his face, and lightning flickered overhead. The elements tried everything they could to shake him free, dashing him left and right with surging waves, but Kurt held on with his iron grip, sometimes almost floating in the water, or flying on the wind. He laughed as salt spray whipped at his face, turning to grin at his comrades as they huddled on the leeside, their shields above their heads to guard against the rain, the timbers of the boat creaking with the strain, the wind singing through the rigging around them.

‘Is this not a fine verse for our saga?’ Kurt said, his bellowing voice carrying above the tumult of the storm. ‘The seas themselves rose up against us, and we conquered them!’

‘Get down from there, you’ll be washed away!’ said Aelfir, struggling to stand up and hurl himself towards Kurt. He reached out a hand to pull Kurt down onto the deck, but the Chosen took a step away and grinned.

‘So the Longaxe has found a foe he cannot defeat?’ said Kurt, laughing, his sodden hair whipping against his face like a flail.

Aelfir muttered something to himself and dashed back across the deck to his kinsmen, shaking his head and complaining. At the stern, Kurt could see Bjordrin and two others wrestling at the rudder, fighting against the storm to keep the longship from pulling herself to pieces between the great forces of the wind and the sea itself. Kurt gave them a hearty wave, but they were too busy to respond.

For a long while the storm threw the longships across the ocean, trying to hurl the Norsemen into the raging seas, or rip the masts from their decks. However, nobody was lost overboard, and there was minimal damage as the storm began to wane, and the clouds broke. The midday sun shone down through the gaps in the dark skies, gold glinting on the wave tops, the lessening wind fresh and clear. A crack appeared in the cloud above and the warm sun shone down onto the two ships, a rainbow coming into view ahead.

‘See how the gods bless us!’ Kurt said, pointing to the rainbow. There was cheering from Jarlen’s ship, which had been brought perilously close in the storm, and was less than a hundred yards to the starboard and slightly astern. Bjordrin staggered down the ship, pulling off his soaked furs as the rain eased to a light shower of droplets, shaking the moisture from his cloak.

‘We were lucky,’ Bjordrin said quietly. He pointed over the prow, and there on the horizon could be seen the dark outline of a coast. ‘Another half a day and we would have been crushed against those cliffs!’

‘So I was right to stand out at sea?’ Kurt asked with a smile.

‘No,’ Bjordrin said, and Kurt’s smile disappeared. He peered up at the sun as the clouds scudded in front of it across the sky. ‘We’ve been pushed south, almost directly south, I reckon. If we had turned east towards the coast, only the edge of the storm would have caught us.’

‘Do you have any idea where we are now?’ Kurt said, looking away to hide his disappointment.

‘Won’t be able to tell until we get a clear night to see the stars,’ Bjordrin said, glancing up at the sky. ‘There’s a few clouds about but I think tonight I should be able to make a guess at how far south we are.’

‘Good,’ said Kurt, looking back at the Norseman. He turned to walk down the deck but Bjordrin stopped him with a hand on his arm.

‘I don’t know if any Norseman has ever been this far south,’ Bjordrin said. ‘Certainly none of the Fjaergard. By your account, that is the land of Estalia. Why not skirt the coast and find a village or town? There’s honour enough in that.’

‘I asked if you would follow me, I had your oath,’ Kurt said, pulling himself up to his full height. ‘This is why I demanded it. I will not give up, I will not let my name be forgotten by time. Nor yours, or any of the others who come with us. What we do here is the stuff of legend, and we must see it through.’

‘You feel aggrieved that you were doubted, I understand that,’ Bjordrin said, taking a step back. ‘But this is a great risk. You may well be remembered for your folly as for your daring.’

‘I would rather die trying than be remembered as the Chosen warrior who made empty promises,’ said Kurt.

‘There is another thing,’ Bjordrin continued in a low tone. ‘Another reason we should stay in sight of the shore.’

‘You don’t know the way,’ Kurt said with a short laugh. ‘I knew that as soon as we set out. By the gods, this is a voyage of discovery as well as loot, that’s the whole point!’

‘So how do you propose we find this land of Araby?’ asked Bjordrin.

‘I have seen maps of the lands that lie to the south,’ Kurt said, clapping a hand to his shoulder. ‘The coast of Araby lies far, far to the south of Fjaergard, weeks of fair sailing. If you can read the stars and tell me when we’re that far south, we simply turn east until we sight land.’

‘But why not just follow the coast to begin with?’ asked Bjordrin with a shake of his head. ‘It makes no sense to me.’

‘East of Estalia lies the land of Tilea, and at its southern tip I have heard there is a large island,’ said Kurt. ‘It is called Sartosa and it is peopled by pirates. Even their kings and queens are pirates, and they and the corsairs of Araby rule the coast from the Badlands to the Great Ocean. They travel in fleets of many ships, more than a match for our two vessels. If we are seen, it is us who will be the raided, not the raiders.’

Bjordrin absorbed this news sombrely, looking deep into Kurt’s eyes. The Chosen smiled and squeezed Bjordin’s shoulder.

‘Just find out where we are, and we shall let the gods guide us to our destiny,’ Kurt said with a nod. ‘I can feel that we are far from them now, their breath grows weaker in my ears, but they are still there. They still watch over me, and the rest of you.’

That night, the weather was calm, the wind dropping to little more than a few desultory puffs. The sky was clear and the sea placid. Kurt had heard of the calm before the storm, but the calm after the storm was something he had never encountered. The stars were different this far south, and as he stood at the prow listening to the slow lap of waves on the hull and the faint stirrings of the wind around the ship, he was contented. Though it had been a wrench to his soul to leave Heldred and Anyata, now that the great adventure was truly underway, he was glad.

Anyata’s words came to mind, and he resolved that he would earn honour and glory for his family, whatever the cost. This was the life he had chosen, the life of the marauder, and now he lived by its rules.

A change in the steady rhythm of the waves caught Kurt’s attention, an increase in tempo that disturbed his thoughts. They were drifting with a bare mast, letting the current carry them south, and the only sounds were the weather, and the snores and sleepy mutterings of the crew. He turned and saw Aelfir at the tiller, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. There was a man stationed to keep watch on either side too, and they were both in view, clearly alert.

A splash to Kurt’s right took him to the starboard side, where Jarlen’s ship coasted along less than a hundred yards away. All seemed to be well on the other vessel. He gave their lookouts a wave, and received raised hands in return.

The splashing sound drifted over the water again, further astern, and Kurt walked back along the length of the ship, jumping from one oarsmen’s bench to the next following the noise. Moonlight dappled on the water, and as Kurt headed astern he saw an area of whiteness roughly fifty yards astern of Jarlen’s longship.

Feeling ill at ease, he strained his eyes, and saw what looked to be a faint bow wave, but there was nothing in the water he could see. The whiteness intensified, and he realised it was coming from beneath the waves, and was closing on Jarlen’s ship. Confused, he called to Aelfir and pointed. The Norse veteran looked for a long while, and then turned back to Kurt, eyes wide with terror.

‘Ware! Ware! Leviathan!’ the steersman screamed. As Kurt looked on he saw a shape rising out of the water. Or rather, he saw a silhouette block out a large patch of reflections on the water, up and up until it obscured a swathe of stars along the horizon. Five glowing white orbs lifted into the air, bathing the sea in their baleful light.

Aelfir’s shouting had roused the crew, and they leapt to their feet, reaching for swords, maces and axes and unhooking their shields from the side of the ship.

‘Danger astern!’ bellowed Kurt, waving his arms furiously to attract the sentries on the other ship. He heard a distant shriek as the man at their tiller turned and saw the monstrosity bearing down on him. Kurt watched him fleeing the aftdeck yelling incoherently, and switched his gaze back to the beast.

Its skin glistened darkly in the moonlight and the pale whiteness that shone from its eyes. Fins and tentacles thrashed across the surface, propelling it after the longship with considerable speed. As it closed the distance, a great maw opened and the moon shone from rows of sword-long teeth, the upper jaw twice the height of a man. The air was filled with a great clamouring from both vessels and Jarlen’s men scrabbled for weapons, while Kurt’s crew yelled warnings and encouragement.

‘Get us alongside, we have to help!’ roared Kurt. Aelfir stood transfixed for a moment, until Bjordrin appeared and shoved him from the tiller and took control. Others jumped to the oars, ramming them through the oarlocks and pulling independently until Bjordrin started shouting out a rapid beat for them to follow.

The leviathan crashed into the stern of Jarlen’s ship, its jaws smashing through planking, ripping apart the rudder and sending shards of timber scything along the deck. The longship sagged in the water as the beast’s weight bore down on it, and the prow lifted into the air until the keel was exposed and water was flooding into the stern, tumbling men, ropes, barrels and weapons down the length of the ship.

Tentacles as thick as a man lashed out onto the stricken ship, bony hooks biting deep into the hull in a deadly grip. Smaller appendages whipped back and forth from the bubbling sea, striking out at the men, sending them tumbling, carved apart by chitinous blades.

‘We must get away,’ yelled one of Kurt’s crew, Aelfwine the Viper, hurling herself at the tiller and wrenching it from Bjordrin’s hands. Bjordrin grabbed a handful of her plaited blonde locks and pulled her away, but the rudder swung freely, pitching the ship away from the monster, toppling people to the deck.

‘We fight together and we die together!’ roared Kurt, pulling himself to his feet. Aelfwine collapsed to the deck as if struck. Kurt ripped his sword free, seeing Bjordrin grab hold of the tiller once more, and charged towards the prow. The crew fell back from him as he passed, seeing the wytchfires burning in his eyes, the runes carved into his skin glowing now with a ruddy light.

Kurt leapt up onto the dragon figurehead right at the prow, sword pointed at the leviathan.

‘Pull harder!’ he demanded, waving his free hand to the rhythm of Bjordrin’s calls. ‘Break your backs if you need to! Pull!’

The longship was crashing through the waves on a converging course with Jarlen’s ship and Kurt could see the crew trying to fight back against the creature from the ocean’s depths. They hacked at the thick tentacles with axes and swords, fending off the whiplash attacks of the creature with hastily-raised shields.

Kurt was barely ten yards from the creature now, and the air was thick with its stench – a mix of rotting fish and effluent. He could see now that it had not one jaw but three, two lower maws extending out from under the main jaw to gnaw at the longship’s hull below the waterline. Two pale white eyes swivelled towards him, and Kurt saw malign intelligence in that gaze. For a moment he and the creature stared at each other, sharing a strange moment of recognition. Kurt could feel the touch of the gods on the beast, and perhaps it saw the same in him.

The moment passed.

A limb flailed up out of the waves towards the Chosen, a booming crash of water as the creature attacked. Kurt struck one-handed with his sword, the blade deflecting off the bone plates and ridges that dotted the member. It cracked against the figurehead, nearly toppling him, and Kurt was forced to leap back onto the deck.

‘One last pull! Now!’ Kurt bellowed, and the crew gave an almighty heave on the oars. The longship surged forward, ramming into the massive bulk of the creature and jarring to a halt.

Kurt was flung forward, but he managed to get his right foot under the fall and surged up, using the momentum to leap from the longship onto the deck of Jarlen’s vessel. He saw the bald Norse captain shouting orders to his crew, double-headed axe in his hands as he swung at the tentacles. The dead and injured littered the deck, which was awash with blood and seawater.

‘Bind the ships together, we’re sinking!’ pleaded Jarlen, spitting blood between shattered teeth.

‘We’ll both go down then,’ came an answering cry from Kurt’s vessel, but before he could yell the order, Bjordrin was at the side, flinging a rope across.

Kurt grabbed it in his left hand and pulled, swinging the other longship around until his muscles burned with the strain. Ducking beneath a swiping limb, he made the rope fast to a bench. Other Norse were leaping across with ropes in their hands and Kurt left them to it, ducking his head and barrelling down the ship towards the leviathan.

With an incoherent scream, Kurt leapt from the deck, a two-handed grasp on his sword, straight at the beast. The sword blade punched through an area of flesh between two of its eyes and the leviathan heaved, dragging the ship even further into the water.

A tentacle swung out of the gloom and hurled Kurt to his back. The grasping appendage circled around his thigh, buckling his armour under the strain. One of the creature’s secondary jaws swung up over the stern, swaying left and right, teeth like daggers snapping together as the tentacle dragged him close.

Kurt sawed at the limb between the bony hooks and the flesh parted suddenly, the wounded tentacle whipping back into the water.

‘Come and eat this!’ he growled, launching himself again at the leviathan. He felt the power of the gods surge through his body and he swung his sword with his full weight behind it. Teeth shattered from the blow, and the tip carved a bloody furrow across the creature’s face. A strange squeal, unbelievably high pitched, emitted from the creature, and two of its major limbs released their hold on the ship, which buoyed up under the lessened burden.

Kurt hacked left and right, only vaguely aware of others just behind him, unable to get any closer due to his wild sword swings. White pus-like blood fountained into the air as Kurt plunged his sword into one of the eyes, and the creature gave out another piercing screech and reared up, releasing its grip on the ship.

Kurt was tossed a dozen yards into the air, limbs flailing. The creature, obviously not used to such resistance, was slipping back beneath the waves, but as Kurt plunged downwards towards the sea, he arrowed his body, sword held in front. He was not a great swimmer, but he carved into the sea like an arrow, the sword tip brushing against flesh, the milky white life fluid of the leviathan bursting out in a cloud around him.

Kurt thrashed under the surface, feeling his blade bite heavily several times, and then the glowing light from the eyes dimmed as the creature fled to the ocean’s depths, plunging him into darkness.

His battle-fury spent, Kurt began to panic, realising that the weight of his armour was dragging him down after his adversary. He would rather die than discard his armour and forced himself to calm down. Sheathing his sword, he could see a faint light wavering above and struck out with slow, even strokes of his arms and legs. Shapes splashed into the water around him, and there were figures swimming down towards him, arms outstretched to help him to the surface.

Breaking above the waves, Kurt gave a monstrous roar with what little breath remained and then gulped in a huge lungful of air. To his left, Aethwine held his arm, kicking strongly towards the ragged timbers of Jarlen’s boat; to his right was Kothi Silvercraft, who helped him pull himself up on a rope lowered by Bjordrin.

Kurt flopped over the ship’s side and lay on his back on the deck, gasping for life. A cluster of faces appeared in his vision, to be waved away by Jarlen, who knelt down beside him.

‘By the gods man!’ the captain grinned. ‘None who saw that can ever doubt that you are favoured by the gods.’

Bjordrin’s bearded face appeared next to Jarlen, his expression one of concern.

‘Better hope we don’t meet any elves, eh, Chosen?’ he said with a sigh.

Lashed together, the two ships drifted southwards on the current, both crews too exhausted from their endeavours to row or make repairs.

Rain drizzled down incessantly from the grey sky, pooling on the muddy streets of Marienburg and giving a slick sheen to its maze of slate rooftops. The weather did nothing to dampen the spirits of the inhabitants, who went about their normal business in grey and brown cloaks and hoods, their appearance every bit as drab as their surroundings. At the port, the stevedores and teamsters unloaded cargoes from Altdorf, Nuln, Brionne and Magritta, and stowed wares bound for those and other distant places. The shouts of the foremen tussled with the creaking of winches, the thuds of dropping crates and the curses of the sea captains.

‘I didn’t really pay much attention last time we came through here,’ said Ursula. ‘I never realised how crowded and busy it was.’

She was standing with Ruprecht overlooking one of the main quays, where a huge three-mast merchantman was being laden with bales of material. Small boats ferried people across the wide Reik estuary to the far shore, and bustled around the arriving ships, their crews tempting the newcomers with souvenirs, fruit, pies, alcohol and women. The pair of them looked like bedraggled itinerants. The little money Ruprecht had sold his boat for had not lasted long, and they had not eaten since arriving last night. They had spent the night outside the city walls, waiting for the gate to open, and had been forced to sneak in, hiding behind a group of farmers bringing in their produce – Marienburg did not welcome those with no money.

‘Let’s try and find this inn,’ Ruprecht suggested, glancing around for some inspiration of where to head. They had asked one of the guards at the gate if he knew of the Haggard Fox, and had been given directions to the docklands. Now they were here, neither had a clue where to head next. ‘At least we’ll be able to get something to eat and a bed.’

‘We should ask someone,’ said Ursula. She pointed at a group of sailors who were drunkenly reeling along the street towards them. ‘They’ve obviously been carousing, perhaps they came across it.’

‘I don’t know if that’s such a…’ began Ruprecht but Ursula was already marching up the street towards the drunkards. Ruprecht hurried after her.

There were four of them, dressed in open shirts of striped linen and leather breeches that hung past their knees in Marienburg fashion. At least they were locals, Ruprecht thought, as he caught up with Ursula.

‘Excuse me, but we’re looking for the sign of the Haggard Fox,’ Ursula told them, stepping out in front of them. They stumbled to a halt and blearily looked at her. One of them, a short wiry man with a close-cropped beard and a scar across his nose, took a hesitant step forward.

‘What’s that?’ he shouted, cupping a hand to his ear.

‘You’ll have to excuse him, fraulein,’ said another, a youngish, handsome man with tousled mousy hair and a thin nose. ‘He’s been as deaf as a sternpost since a yard fell on his head last year. Where was that, the Haggard Fox you say?’

‘Yes, the Haggard Fox,’ Ursula replied. ‘We’re supposed to meet someone there.’

‘It’s that ways,’ said a third sailor, skinny as a beanpole with a moon face and hair down past his shoulders. His finger waved somewhere between his left and in front of him. ‘I was there only yesterday.’

‘Pay him no heed neither,’ said the young man with a scowl at his comrade, who drooped across the shoulders of the fourth man. ‘He’s pulling your leg. It’s a tidy step away, fraulein, perhaps you would care for an escort.’

The man’s eyes glinted and he offered up his elbow like a gentleman courting a lady. Ruprecht stepped forward and slipped his arm underneath and gave the sailor a grim smile.

‘Right you are, lad, show us the way!’ he said, his stare boring into the drunken man’s skull. The sailor pulled his arm free and staggered back a step.

‘I didn’t realise as you had company,’ stammered the young sailor, bowing clumsily to each of them. ‘I meant no harm by it, just offering friendliness, fraulein, herr.’

‘Not to worry, lad,’ Ruprecht slapped a meaty hand to the man’s shoulder, buckling his knees. ‘Just give us the nod of which way to go and you can be on your way too.’

‘There’s a big fella with his hand on my friend…’ said the short bearded sailor, raising his fists and taking a couple of unsteady steps forward. ‘Unhand my mate, or I’ll give you a milling.’

‘Leave it, Klaus, he’s meaning no harm,’ said the tall sailor, rousing himself from his friend’s support. ‘Leave it.’

‘It’s back that ways, three streets down,’ the young man told them, waving away his shipmates. ‘Third on the right, Haggard Fox, you can’t miss it.’

‘Thank you,’ Ursula said with a nod. They had taken a few steps further down the street when they heard a voice call to them. It came from the fourth sailor, his bald head tattooed with an anchor and a noose, his finger wagging at them like a scolding father.

‘The Haggard Fox is no place for decent folk!’ he warned them. ‘A right enough joint, but there’s all manner of outlandish folk keeping bed there these past few days. Strange company, you’ll not want to be keeping. Mark my words, you want to steer clear of them, nice couple like you!’

‘We’re not a…’ Ursula began, but Ruprecht grabbed her by the arm and dragged her on.

‘It doesn’t matter what they think, best not confuse them, eh?’ he told her, and she glanced back over her shoulder and gave them a cheery wave. It made Ruprecht smile to see her like this. Ever since her supposed revelation, she had been more like her old self. Although not quite as carefree as she had been when they had first met, she at least smiled and laughed again, and seemed to be taking pleasure in her life once more.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s find these outlandish folk and strange company. Seems just our sort of crowd.’

The Haggard Fox was a three-storey building wedged into the gap between a low warehouse and a moneylenders offices. The bedraggled stuffed fox that hung over the door certainly looked haggard enough. In fact, thought Ruprecht as he looked at the clumsy work of the amateur taxidermist, it looked downright bloody miserable. He peered through the window but could see nothing of the interior.

‘Shall we?’ he said, waving a hand towards the door. Ursula didn’t move, but gazed up at one of the windows on the second floor. Ruprecht followed her gaze and for a moment saw a beautiful, bronzed face in the window looking down at them. Then a drape swished back and the face was gone.

Ruprecht opened the door and stepped inside. He was expecting perhaps a bit of a racket, the normal smoke-filled air, the chatter of tenants and patrons. Instead, he found himself in a well-appointed hallway. A row of hooks on the wall carried coats and cloaks, and there was even a hat stand at the far end.

‘That’s very trusting,’ Ursula said as she stepped in after him, the door swinging shut on a rusty spring. ‘Surely Marienburg isn’t the sort of place you would leave your belongings unattended.’

‘I wonder…’ muttered Ruprecht. He paced the hall examining the walls, floor and ceiling, before tracing his steps back to the door. He swung it outwards, and glanced at the timber frame.

‘There!’ he said, pointing to a small symbol scratched into the underside of the lintel, a small circle with a line drawn vertically through it.

‘What is it?’ asked Ursula, peering up at the mark.

‘It’s one of the signs used by followers of Ranald,’ said Ruprecht. ‘It marks this as a protected house.’

‘Followers of the Trickster?’ Ursula was shocked. ‘You mean this is a thieves’ den?’

‘Yes and no,’ Ruprecht told her, letting the door close. ‘Perhaps they do meet here, or perhaps they have an arrangement with the owner.’

‘How do you know this?’ Ursula asked, eyeing the hallway warily.

‘When I was with…’ Ruprecht began, hesitating at using the name. He took a breath and started again. ‘When I was with Marius, he taught me various marks and symbols of the different gods, some of them true gods like Ranald and Taal, others of the dark powers who we do not speak of.’

‘Do you think we’re safe here?’ said Ursula.

‘Of course, the followers of Ranald may be conmen and thieves, but they’ll not slit our throats in our sleep!’ Ruprecht said. ‘Besides, if this is a protected house, we’re probably safer here than anywhere else. Come on, let’s go in.’

He opened the interior door and they stepped through into a low, long chamber. Low armchairs and couches filled the room, small tables dotted the bare wooden floors. It was lit by lanterns hung from the ceiling beams, and a fire roared in a grate at the far end of the room. The sound of gentle chatter filled the air.

The occupants of the room were, as the sailor had warned, an outlandish crowd. At the nearest table a dwarf sat gruffly arguing with a tall, broad man wearing a doublet decorated in gold thread, an ornate basket-hilt sword across his knees. Next to them a man sat on his own, flipping a gold crown along the knuckles of his hand and practising other sleight-of-hand tricks. A sea of faces looked up at them as they entered and the talking stopped. A man with an eye patch and a ragged scar the length of his left cheek stood up and waved them over.

‘Welcome, welcome!’ he cried to them, his voice deep and warm. ‘Welcome to the Haggard Fox, keen adventurers!’

Ruprecht gave a hesitant nod and they walked over to join the man. The low babble recommenced as the patrons turned back to their own affairs.

‘I’m Ruud Goeyen, owner of this establishment,’ the man said, proffering a hand. Ursula shook it first and then glared at Ruprecht when he hesitated. With a forced smile, the burly Talabheimer gripped the man’s hand and gave it a perfunctory shake.

‘You’ll be here to see Lady Halste, no doubt,’ the man said, waving them to an empty couch by the fireplace. ‘You’re just in time, they’re planning to head off in the next day or two, stragglers like yourself not withstanding.’

‘Can we speak with the lady?’ asked Ursula.

‘Ah, her agent will be here soon, turns in around noon every day to check on new arrivals,’ said Goeyen. ‘Make yourselves comfy, I’ll bring you a hot nip and a bite to eat. First meal’s compliments of the house, given the great trade that the lady’s offer has brought me this past week. Seems churlish to charge such brave souls when they’ve just arrived.’

They sat down at Goeyen’s insistence, dumping their bags at their feet and sinking deep into the poorly-filled sofa. The landlord reappeared a moment later with mugs of frothing ale and neatly placed them on the table in front of the pair. Something had been nagging at Ruprecht, and he realised what it was.

‘This is a tavern,’ said Ruprecht, glancing around. ‘But I can see no bar.’

‘Ah, well you see, that’s a matter to keep shush about,’ Goeyen told them, tapping a finger to his crooked nose. ‘You see, me and the revenue man has a deal. I don’t run a bar, and he don’t ask where the liquor comes from. Keeps it nice and simple for both of us that way.’

Ruprecht nodded sagely, and as Goeyen turned his back, flicked his eyebrows in disbelief.

‘Why would this Lady Halste be using a hideout for thieves and tax-dodgers to do her recruiting?’ he asked. ‘Something smells fishy to me.’

‘This is Marienburg,’ laughed Ursula, grabbing her beer. ‘Everything smells fishy here, one way or the other!’

‘You’re right, but mind your tongue, and keep your eyes keen,’ Ruprecht said with a scowl.

‘Relax, Ruprecht,’ Ursula said. ‘I don’t think Sigmar would have led me here to be robbed or swindled.’

‘Let’s see that notice again,’ Ruprecht asked, holding out a hand. He’d looked at it every day for the past three days, trying to read between the lines. Ursula pulled it from her small travelling sack and handed it over.

‘What do you think this “Expedition to the East” is?’ he said, handing it back. ‘Nothing but orcs and dwarfs in the Grey Mountains, so what’s a lady of Marienburg want there?’

‘I’ve no answer, just as I’ve had no answer all the other times you’ve asked me that question,’ Ursula said. ‘If you’ve got such misgivings, why did you agree to come?’

Ruprecht felt a pang of guilt. He had not told Ursula of his decision to leave her – it had seemed unnecessary at the time. However, it was too late now, it would only cause her more hurt, and now that she was so much brighter, it seemed the wrong thing to do.

‘Someone’s got to keep an eye on you, stop you getting yourself into more trouble,’ he said. It was only a half-lie, after all. He really did care about Ursula and certainly wasn’t going to let her stumble off into some half-arsed escapade that could wind up with her lying dead on some distant mountain.

Goeyen returned with plates of fish stew and a loaf of bread. Behind him came a short, fat man with olive skin and narrow eyes and a black pointed beard, swathed in a heavy travelling cloak.

‘This is Asbadul Khemen, Lady Halste’s envoy,’ the landlord told them. ‘He’s the man who’ll tell you what you need to know.’

With a nod, Goeyen wandered off, leaving Khemen standing opposite Ruprecht and Ursula. He smiled hesitantly.

‘Oh, please, sit down,’ Ursula said, standing and pulling another chair up to the table. ‘You don’t mind if we talk and eat, do you? Only, I’m famished and didn’t have breakfast today.’

‘Please, whatever you wish,’ Khemen said, plucking a handkerchief from his voluminous cloak and wiping down the seat before sitting. They sat there for a moment in silence, Khemen eyeing them nervously, Ruprecht surrounded by an almost tangible cloud of suspicion.

‘My name is Ursula Schenk,’ Ursula said, reaching for her plate. ‘And this is my friend Ruprecht. He used to be called The Bear, you know.’

‘Really?’ Khemen replied, looking the burly Ruprecht up and down. ‘I can see the similarity.’

They sat again in awkward silence for a while. Unable to wait any longer, Ursula started eating.

‘Well, you must have plenty of questions,’ Khemen eventually said with a clap of his hands. ‘However, forgive me, but there are questions I need to ask you before I can tell you more.’

‘Go on,’ said Ruprecht, leaning forward and grabbing his own plate and spoon.

‘Perhaps if you begin by telling me a little about yourselves, where you hail from, what experience in this sort of endeavour you have,’ said Khemen. Ruprecht exchanged a glance with Ursula, and at that moment Goeyen walked over carrying a steaming goblet, which he handed to Khemen. ‘Mulled wine, keeps out the damnable chill,’ the Arabian explained with a smile.

‘I’m from Talabheim,’ Ruprecht said between mouthfuls of fish and turnip. ‘Ursula hails from the Ostermark.’

‘Talabheim? Ostermark?’ said Khemen, placing his goblet on the table and steepling his fingers to his bearded chin. ‘So, you’re not local. That might be inappropriate.’

‘Why?’ asked Ursula, gobbling down a hunk of bread.

Khemen stared at them both for a moment, before nodding to himself. He deplored the drama, but Lady Halste’s instructions had been specific. Lure them in with a bit of intrigue, and they would agree to anything, that’s what she had said. For his part, Khemen thought that most of those who had offered their services were more interested in the gold than anything else, but it was not his place to argue against his mistress’s will.

‘The expedition that Lady Halste is commissioning impacts heavily upon the future of Marienburg, and the whole Empire,’ he said, leaning closer and dropping his voice. ‘It may be that agents of the other states would wish our endeavour to fail, and so I must be cautious.’

‘Politics,’ said Ruprecht, slurping down the last of his stew and discarding the plate onto the table with a clatter.

‘Such matters are beyond normal men such as you and I,’ said Khemen with a conciliatory nod of the head. ‘But you must swear by your gods that what you hear today will go no further. Until you make that oath, I can tell you no more.’

‘I swear by almighty Sigmar that you have our full trust,’ Ursula said immediately. Khemen glanced at her and then turned his look back to Ruprecht, who gave a sigh.

‘I also swear by the gods to uphold my silence,’ he said.

‘Splendid!’ said Khemen with another small clap of his hands. ‘In that case, perhaps you would care to accompany me upstairs. If you’ve finished, that is?’

Taking their beers with them, Ruprecht and Ursula followed the agent out of the main room to a stairwell at the back of the building. He led them up to the top of the stairs and along the landing. Opening a double door, he ushered them into the suite beyond, and bid them sit in the lounge. He disappeared through another door.

‘Expensive,’ muttered Ruprecht, looking around the room. It was very well appointed, the furniture clean and new rugs on the floor, with heavy drapes on the windows. Crystal goblets and a half-full decanter stood on a sideboard, and a fire burned fitfully in a marble-trimmed fireplace.

The door opened again, and a woman swept in, her long purple dress trailing along the floor. Her long hair was bound up on her head with a gem-studded tiara, her arms ringed with gold bangles and her hands shining with rings. With a delicate chiming of jewellery, she paced into the room, a wide smile on her face. It was the woman they had seen earlier looking down into the street.

‘I am Lady Halste,’ she told them. ‘And you are my honoured guests.’

As the afternoon passed, Lady Halste told them about herself and her quest. The only child of one of Marienburg’s merchant princes and an Estalian lady, she had grown up in southern Estalia with her mother, only occasionally seeing her father. However, shunned by her own people, she had felt more a citizen of Marienburg than of her home country. She had learned as much as she could from her father, but he had always been unwilling to bring her back north with him, rightfully claiming that her health would suffer in the colder, wetter reaches of the Empire, in particular in the polluted port city. Then, last year, her father had died at sea when a convoy he had been master of was attacked by ships hailing from Nordland.

She had bid goodbye to her family and set off north with a small entourage, determined to visit the Empire and Marienburg. He father’s death had left her emotionally troubled, she explained, and unable to take ship from fear of meeting a similar fate. Thus her caravan had made its way north overland, risking the orcs and brigands of the Border Princes into the eastern Empire. She had been lucky, crossing the Black Mountains barely a week before the horde of Gorbad Ironclaw had descended on Solland. Unaware of the devastation being wreaked behind her, she had travelled westwards through Nuln and Altdorf, until finally she had come to her ancestral home in Marienburg.

There, her father’s creditors, owed money from the ill-fated convoy, had repossessed his lands and taken what remained of his ships. He had been wise though, much of his money had been in Estalia, and his name was still well-respected. Taking lodgings for herself, she had made the acquaintance of Asbadul Khemen, who had been glad to take employment as her agent in these strange lands, and set about investing the wealth she had brought with her.

Her reputation had grown and before long she had been invited to dine at the court of the count. Here she had met the great man himself, and had heard his impassioned speech about the state of the Empire. Decrying the internecine war that was tearing the land apart, he had called to the gods for deliverance from these evil times. He also called on every faithful Marienburger and Wastelander to turn their every effort to the restoration of the power of the state so that they might rise above the squabbles of the other provinces and unite them once again.

Ursula, who had been listening quietly to this story until that point, stirred in her seat and leaned forwards.

‘A plan to reunite the Empire?’ she said. ‘What makes the Count of Marienburg the rightful leader?’

‘My dear, does it truly matter who wears the crown of the Emperor?’ said Lady Halste. ‘Is it not enough that one man alone becomes Emperor, with the support of all the counts? It is this kind of thought that has divided the Empire these past centuries.’

‘And how do you plan to help?’ said Ruprecht, sipping his ale, which had been refreshed by Khemen a few moments earlier. ‘What is this expedition for?’

‘You ask many questions,’ said Lady Halste. ‘Khemen tells me that you are not from the Wasteland.’

‘We’re not spies,’ Ursula said, guessing the lady’s thoughts. ‘I am dispossessed, I owe loyalty to no single man or place, but to Sigmar himself and the legacy he left us.’

Lady Halste smiled warmly.

‘Then I will trust to my own judgement of character,’ she said. ‘As you know, every count believes he has a rightful claim to the throne of the Emperor. Three of them even now bear the title Emperor, and yet none command the loyalty of their usurped position. In these troubled times, the next Emperor must be approved by all of the electors; it is not enough to have a vote of the majority. If the Empire is to drag itself from this mire, then every back must be bent in the labour.’

‘And you think you have a way that will gain the backing of all the electors?’ asked Ursula, her eyes betraying her doubt.

‘In my studies of the history of Marienburg, to better learn the ways and traditions of my fathers, I came across a particular reference that piqued my interest,’ said Lady Halste. ‘Investigating further, with the aid of Khemen, I have devised a way that the glory of Marienburg, and thus the Empire, might be restored.’

‘So what is it?’ asked Ursula, growing impatient.

‘Over eighteen hundred years before in the dark days before the coming of Sigmar,’ Lady Halste told them, ‘the people of the Empire lived in scattered tribes. Greatest chieftain of the tribes of the Wasteland was Marbad, known as the Silverblade in the ancient legends. He was so named for a great family heirloom he carried – an elven blade from antiquity that his family had wielded for generations. It was said that the sword, called Ulfshard in the tongue of the old tribes, could cut through metal or stone with a single blow, ward away evil magics and hide the bearer from the sight of monsters and daemons.’

‘And you believe this legend legitimises the count’s claim to be Emperor?’ said Ruprecht. ‘Any one of the states can trace its roots back to the time of Sigmar, and they all have their legends about how their leader was a great warrior, gifted with mythical swords or shields or armour.’

‘This legend,’ the lady said, ‘is in fact truth. It was Marbad Silverblade who swore allegiance to Sigmar when his Unberogens had joined with Marbad’s folk to drive out the bestial creatures who preyed upon them from the marshes. He swore his oath of friendship upon Ghal Maraz, Skull Splitter, famed dwarf-forged Hammer of Sigmar. In return, Sigmar pledged his alliance on the blade of Ulfshard. Thus their two destinies became intertwined.’

‘All of the original chieftains swore allegiance to Sigmar, I still don’t see the relevance,’ said Ursula, slumping back on the couch.

‘There is only one of the great artefacts that has survived to this day,’ Halste said. ‘Ghal Maraz, the Hammer of Sigmar, is the symbol of the Emperor himself. It currently resides in Altdorf, but its value as a symbol of power has been turned into a mockery.’

‘So you think that by producing Ulfshard, the Count of Marienburg will have something else for the electors to unite behind?’ said Ruprecht. ‘Surely if it was that easy, his forefathers would have done so decades, centuries ago.’

‘When Sigmar had cleared the forests of the orcs, driving them into the World’s Edge Mountains to the east, Marbad, along with the other chieftains, fought at his side,’ said Lady Halste. ‘In the great battle of Blackfire Pass, when the grand alliance of men and dwarfs warred against the endless orc and goblin hordes in their massive final confrontation, Marbad was one of Sigmar’s closest lieutenants. An ambush by the greenskins waylaid the future Emperor, but Marbad threw himself between the foe and Sigmar, sacrificing himself to their black-shafted arrows. Pierced through the lungs and stomach by the wicked darts, he died, and Ulfshard fell from his grip.’

‘And the sword was lost,’ said Ursula with a nod of understanding.

‘As we all know, Sigmar’s men and King Kurgan’s dwarfs triumphed that day, smashing the orc and goblin horde and securing the freedom of the Empire from their raids,’ said Lady Halste. She stood, crossed the room to the window and stood there for a moment, looking out at the grey cityscape of Marienburg. She turned, her eyes shining. ‘Marbad was taken back to his people atop a great bier, his body burned on a pyre upon the waters of the Reik as was the custom of his lands. His son became the new chieftain and became the first Count of the Wasteland when Sigmar passed away into the east.’

‘And his sword?’ said Ruprecht.

‘Of Ulfshard, there was no record,’ said Lady Halste with a shake of her head. ‘No record of man, at least, for men had not mastered the writing of history at that time, and though the legends were told to future generations, they would not be recorded for many centuries. And so it was that Ulfshard passed out of knowledge.

‘But Khemen, the gods bless him, found a reference to the ancient elven sword. A translation of a dwarf text revealed that the blade of Marbad had not been lost on the field of battle. The dwarfs had found it as they protected his body from the greenskins, and taken it into their care. Other histories showed that the dwarfs who had fought with Marbad hailed from the hold of Karak Norn in the Grey Mountains.’

‘And so you’re organising an expedition to the Grey Mountains to reclaim the sword,’ said Ursula.

‘I tell you this because I want you to understand the importance of what we do,’ said Lady Halste, sitting down again. ‘My blood is from Marienburg, so it is my duty. However, what you say is true, this might seem like another example of the detestable infighting that plagues our realm. It would, but for one thing. Should the count arise with a legitimate claim to the throne, it would secure the alliance with Nordland. With the armies of Nordland and the Wasteland, the count would march to the relief of Reikland and throw back this horde of orcs that plagues Altdorf.’

The lady sipped her wine and her smile faded, a more calculating expression replacing her jollity.

‘With Marienburg, Reikland and Nordland all united as one, then Middenland must also join the cause, for the Count of Middenheim will be surrounded on three sides,’ said Lady Halste. ‘If he does not, he must fear an alliance from Hochland to his east and he will truly be isolated and if it should come to war would soon be overpowered.’

Her expression eased and she lounged back on the couch, draping a beringed hand over the arm, the goblet dangling precariously from her fingers.

‘It is my upbringing, I’m afraid,’ she said with a brief grin. ‘Politics is in my blood, and to survive with my station in life, one must learn to plot and scheme. But that is neither here nor there. With Middenland dropping its claim to the Emperor’s hammer, Hochland and Ostland will surely join forces as well. Over half of the Empire will be for our cause.’

‘You make it sound simple,’ said Ruprecht. ‘Men will still die, orphans and widows will still mourn them.’

‘Yes, that is true,’ said Lady Halste, sitting forward and clasping the stem of her glass in both hands. ‘There will still be fighting and dying to be done. But if nobody stands up and grasps the thorn, then nobody will be able to smell the rose, as they say in Estalia.’

‘What matters is that the states unite again, that there is a single Emperor to take up the mantle left by Sigmar,’ Ursula said. ‘If we could have but one Emperor, then surely the Empire will rebuild itself.’

Ruprecht glanced at her and recognised the expression on her face. This was why Sigmar had brought her here, or so she thought. He sighed inwardly, full of foreboding. In his time as Marius van Diesl’s right hand man he had learnt a very simple truth – nobility and a quest for power was always a sure recipe for corruption. He could tell from Ursula’s tone and look, though, that there would be no persuading her of this.

‘We will do anything we can to help you,’ said Ursula, and Lady Halste looked to Ruprecht for confirmation. He nodded, meeting her steady gaze.

‘You, Ruprecht my dear, have the build and the look of a fighter,’ she said. ‘We are to travel through troubled lands, and I have employed a substantial armed guard to keep us safe. You are welcome to join them.’

‘Consider it agreed then,’ Ruprecht said.

‘And you, my darling,’ Lady Halste said, standing up and pacing over to Ursula, placing a hand on her cheek. ‘You are both beautiful and intelligent, and I can think of no better companion to be one of my maids.’

‘I would be honoured, my lady,’ Ursula replied. ‘I can also fight if necessary.’

‘Really? How novel,’ said Lady Halste, crossing the room to refill her glass. ‘It is all settled then. You are welcome to lodge here at my expense, that is if you have no other arrangements. The caravan will be assembling tomorrow at first light by the south gate. I will see you there.’

Ruprecht cracked his knuckles nervously, and Ursula exchanged a glance with him. Lady Halste noticed the exchange.

‘There is a problem?’ she said.

Ruprecht cleared his throat.

‘We, well that is, to say, Ursula and I…’ he stuttered.

‘We haven’t any money at the moment,’ Ursula said, plucking at the ragged clothes she was wearing. Lady Halste opened her mouth to speak and then shut it again, in thought.

‘Khemen will advance you some of your retainer,’ she said after a moment. ‘Tell him how much you need to be adequately supplied and he will note it in my accounts. And Ursula, I trust you will find yourself some attire more suitable for the companion of an Imperial lady.’

Ursula glanced at her leggings and jerkin with a blush and nodded.

‘Good, I shall see you tomorrow morning, bright and early,’ said Lady Halste, standing and waving a hand to the door.

Courteously dismissed, Ruprecht and Ursula thanked the lady and left, remembering to take their tin tankards with them. As Khemen closed the door behind the pair, Lady Halste flopped back down onto the couch, splashing wine onto the floor.

‘The big one is suspicious, keep an eye on him,’ Khemen told her. ‘You should have told them no.’

‘Yes, but the red-haired girl is such a charm,’ mused Lady Halste, pulling free a lock of hair and twirling it in her fingers. ‘Did you see her eyes shining when I talked of their barbarian god? I’ve never seen anything like it. Yes, I’ll keep an eye on the bear, but the girl could prove wonderfully useful.’

The next morning a line of sixteen wagons was drawn up alongside the road by the south gate, and a throng of people busied themselves in preparation. In the middle was a high-roofed coach Ursula guessed to be Lady Halste’s.

‘There must be a hundred people if there’s a dozen,’ exclaimed Ursula as she and Ruprecht walked out through the gate, pushing their way through the crowd entering and leaving the city.

‘These things have a habit of growing,’ Ruprecht told her. ‘The more people, the more supplies needed. The more supplies, the more wagons. The more wagons, the more mules and horses. The more beasts, the more farriers and handlers needed. And they need feeding, which means more supplies, and so it goes on.’

‘Who are they?’ asked Ursula, pointing to a group of twenty or so grim-faced men dressed in black doublets, cloaks and tanned leather kilts. They carried long double-handed swords across their backs, pistols and dirks hung on their belts.

‘Sellswords, mercenaries, dogs of war, call them what you like,’ Ruprecht replied. He gestured towards five horsemen that were cantering along the line, long spears held high, pennants of different colours fluttering in the wind. ‘Those are freelances. Landless knights who fight for money.’

‘Look at them,’ chirped Ursula, indicating a small group of men clustered on one of the wagons. They were naked but for ragged loincloths, and carried barbed whips and flail-headed chains, with which they beat each other. She could hear their moaning laments above the noise of the crowd.

‘Marius called them flagellants,’ Ruprecht told her. ‘They believe it’s the end of the world. They scourge themselves trying to absolve themselves of the evil within. I’m surprised the lady allowed them to join.’

‘She didn’t particularly have a choice,’ a voice behind her said. They turned and saw an old man standing in the shadow of the gate. He was dressed in a loose-fitting robe of brown wool, and had a garland of dried brambles about his head, the thorns scratching at the flesh. The man himself was gaunt, his face lined with many wrinkles, the skin hanging in sagging loops from his fleshless cheeks and jowl. On his shoulder sat a weasel, its beady eyes regarding them with animal intelligence.

‘How so?’ asked Ursula, leaning forward to examine the weasel. It turned its head to one side and looked back at her.

‘They would have followed on their own account,’ the man said. ‘They have a tendency to cause trouble, so better just to accept them and deal with it than leave them tagging on behind where you can’t see what they are getting up to. My name is Gerhardt Taalstock, by the way.’

‘Taalstock?’ Ruprecht said. He took a step forward and then lowered his head in deference.

‘You recognise the name?’ Gerhardt said, taken aback. ‘You’re the first man since I passed Altdorf who does.’

‘I was born in Talabheim, wildfather,’ Ruprecht explained. ‘Like you, I’m not from round these parts, as my mother used to say. What brings you to join this mysterious cavalcade.’

‘Wildfather?’ Ursula said. ‘You’re a priest of Taal?’

‘Yes, my dear,’ Gerhardt replied, taking her hand in his. The weasel squeaked and scampered down his arm, along Ursula’s and onto her shoulder. He nuzzled her plaited hair contentedly. ‘Well, if Louda here approves of you, I guess we should become acquainted.’

As they talked, they walked along the line of wagons, weaving their way through the milling people. Nearly half were soldiers, the others craftsmen of some type – carpenters with carts filled with tools, blacksmiths with portable forges carried by their assistants on long poles, cobblers, farriers, coopers and all other kinds of artisans.

‘I have Taal to thank for my current occupation,’ the priest said. ‘It was over a year ago, when I lived on the banks of the Stir. I saw a circle of rooks flying to the south, a sign from the Lord of the Wilds. I packed up my things, and followed the flock until they led me to a crossroads a few miles south of Kemperbad. There they flew off in all directions, so I figured I was where I was supposed to be. I waited there the whole summer, wondering what I should do. People travelled from Kemperbad to see me, and I helped them, but it didn’t feel like that was Taal’s intent. Then, in the autumn, I met Lady Halste on the road. Her horse had gone lame and I healed it, and it was then that I knew that I was to accompany her.’

‘That’s remarkable!’ Ursula said with a laugh. She dropped her voice low. ‘It was Sigmar who brought me to Marienburg, you know.’

Ruprecht dropped a few paces behind them. Great, he thought, now I have to travel with two people who commune with the gods.

CHAPTER SIX

MARIENBURG

Spring 1711

Kurt had never known the sun to be so large and hot. It beat down upon the longship, shone back from every piece of metal, dazzled off the sea and turned the sailcloth into a blaze of blinding white. The men padded cautiously barefoot across the hot planks of the deck, their skin reddened and peeling, sweat pouring from them.

Kurt had surrendered his armour to the constant heat, and like the others was dressed in a simple loincloth. His shoulders were blistered, as were the backs of his arms and the tops of his feet, and thirst made him feel constantly dizzy.

The rest of the crew were faring no better, and they were running desperately short of both water and food. Bjordrin had imposed, through Kurt, a harsh rationing of the remaining supplies, but if they did not make landfall to replenish their stocks soon, there was no telling what might happen. Twice they had headed towards the shore, only to find the barren cliffs and plains of Estalia awaiting them. There was no sign of settlement nor even a stream for them to resupply, and they had wearily moved away again in fear of southern pirates.

Kurt had asked Jakob to use his magic to locate food and water for them, but he had flatly refused. In these more southerly climes, the breath of the gods did not blow strongly. He had told Kurt that such an act of magic would require a sacrifice to generate the favour of the gods, and he would not risk that for something as mundane as finding food.

They had tried fishing, trailing lines over the side of the ship as they sailed, but had enjoyed little success. Certainly they did not catch enough to feed the whole crew and it soon became clear that the food they used for bait was better used for themselves.

The Norse had greeted the constant sunshine and warm nights with delight at first. Used to the near-endless snows of the north, the heat had been welcome. But as day after day passed, and sunstroke and sunburn took its toll, they became increasingly restless. As time wore on, more and more of the crew were succumbing to the incessant heat. Some were lethargic and unable to work properly, others had been suffering intense headaches and bouts of madness that woke them in their sleep, raving about imaginary monsters and the eye that would not blink.

Progress was also much slowed since the encounter with the leviathan. Jarlen’s ship had been badly crippled, and it had taken three days just to make her seaworthy. Forced to keep station with the other vessel in case of difficulties leading to the ship being abandoned, Kurt’s ship crawled across the waves. He longed to forge ahead, to seek out some source of succour, but he knew that in these unfamiliar waters, once the two ships lost sight of each other, they might never encounter each other again.

Kurt comforted himself with the thought that they were at least heading eastwards, Bjordrin having assured him that they were now south of Estalia. At night, they had been accustomed to following the stars and the rising moons, but in these southern lands the night sky was different, and only the rising and setting sun confirmed which direction they were heading in. To the north lay Estalia and Tilea, to the south the deserts of Araby. It was only a matter of time before they made landfall, and Kurt prayed to the gods that when they did they would find some sign of life. If not, he did not know how long the crew would follow him.

So far the great adventure had been a disaster. From the early success when he had single-handedly stormed the Empire fort, he had been encouraged. But now, many weeks into the journey, doubts began to creep in. He dismissed them as soon as they reared themselves, but the constant griping of the crew, Bjordrin’s occasional accusing looks and his own uncertainty were taking their toll on his resolve.

He stood at the prow of the longship, a hand shielding his eyes against the sun as he searched the horizon for a sign of land. Licking his tongue over cracked lips, he swallowed painfully. It felt as if every drop of water had been squeezed from his body, his blood running thick in his veins, sapping him of his strength. Most of the men were laid out in the shadow of the ship’s sides, shields propped up on axes and swords over their heads to create little havens of shade. The few who were up and about strolled listlessly across the deck, cursing the heat and directing venomous looks towards Kurt.

He had nothing to offer them. He was too tired for a rousing speech, even if he thought it might make a difference, which he didn’t. There was nothing he could do, no way he could fight the climate, no great gesture he could make that would get them through this tortuous limbo.

There was also no going back. They either made landfall and found water, or they would die, and they were nearer the coast of Araby than anywhere else now. There was little enough chance of that, with the wind coming in intermittent puffs and no more, and the crew too weary to bend their backs to the oars. They drifted on the current, and would be delivered by the whim of the gods.

Another disturbing thought occurred to Kurt, as he stood there half-dazed, leaning on the dragon figurehead. The men were in no fit shape to fight. They could expect a harsh welcome from the local populace, and so would need to find a source of water that was unprotected.

It seemed hopeless.

A hoarse shout from Jarlen’s ship woke Kurt as he slept curled up in the prow. He pulled himself up and squinted across the water to the other vessel. The sun was low on the horizon, the first stars of evening visible in the darkening sky to the east. He couldn’t make out the croaking words, but the other captain’s gestures made it clear: they had sighted land!

‘On your feet, get to the oars,’ said Kurt, his voice a low rasp, kicking at the slumbering Norsemen. They roused slowly, and he ran along the deck shouting. ‘Land, you lazy curs! Land!’

His cry brought them to their senses, and they pulled themselves wearily onto the benches and swung out the sweeps. Jarlen’s ship was already pulling away under the steady strokes of her crew.

‘Come on, pull like the gods themselves were after you!’ said Bjordrin, storming forward from his place beside the tiller. He pounded a fist against the mast in time to the beat. ‘Pull! Pull! Pull!’

Kurt pushed a man aside and sat down on a bench by himself. His inhuman muscles bunched and released as he exerted himself, and he could feel the energy coursing through his heart, roaring in his limbs. He soon began to tire and sweat streamed from him. His limbs became leaden with the effort. He felt weak, and the sensation worried him.

Stroke after stroke, they clawed their way across the waves, until even the men on the benches could see a high sandstone cliff rearing from the waves.

The men abandoned the oars and jumped up from the benches, cheering and clapping, all weariness forgotten. They pointed and laughed at the yellow coast stretched out before them, and gave a great cheer as Kurt pulled himself up and stood at the prow.

‘Behold the lands of Araby!’ he said, raising a fist above his head. ‘Your names shall live forever in legend! Glory and treasures await!’

Close inshore they began to catch the erratic puffs of a sea breeze, and the Norse set themselves to unfurling the sail, while Kurt mouthed a silent thanks to the gods for delivering him upon this strange shore.

It was not long until they found suitable landing, a few miles further east along the coast. Sandstone cliffs lined the sea for many miles, occasionally broken by shallow bays. A mile ahead they spied a half-mile long, crescent-shaped sandy beach flowing smoothly down to the sea, the dunes mounting higher and higher further inland until they turned into hills that obscured all view of what the interior held. To the east and west the beach reared up into massive cliffs some hundred feet above the waves, two sheer walls of yellow and red striated sandstone. Most importantly, the lookouts spied the glittered reflection of a pool or small brook.

The breeze took them right up to the coastline, until the sailors could feel the keel of the longship cutting through the sandy seabed. They glided gently into the bay, the Norsemen carrying their axes, maces and swords, shields near at hand, scanning the coast for any sign of a waiting enemy. There was nothing except sand, the azure sky and the blazing sun gazing down on them like an angry eye.

Kurt’s ship was the first to make landfall, overhauling Jarlen in the final approach as the other captain approached the sand bank more cautiously, wary of the damage his ship had already suffered.

‘Spread out and search for food and water, but don’t stray out of sight of the ships,’ Kurt told the crew as they picked up their shields and leapt into the thigh-deep water.

‘Don’t worry, Chosen, if we find any treasure, you’ll get your share,’ said Lina Half-wolf with a grin as she vaulted over the side of the longship.

‘It truly is a sea of sand, isn’t it?’ Kurt heard Jakob whisper behind him. He turned to see the shaman, right foot up on the side, one hand over his eyes to shield them from the glare of the sun as he gazed in wonder along the coast. ‘It’s as if the air itself melts, see the way the sky shimmers?’

Kurt looked for a moment, and it seemed as if he could see a city floating in the air, not far inland. Surrounded by a high wall, with four great pyramids at the centre, the city wavered in and out of sight. Then it disappeared.

‘Did you see it too?’ said Jakob.

‘Still think I’m a fool?’ Kurt said with a nod.

‘More than ever,’ Jakob replied, stepping down and turning to Kurt. ‘But, I’ll give you this. You really are the Chosen, or very lucky.’

‘Men make their own luck,’ Kurt said, buckling his sword belt around his waist. ‘The gods help those who help themselves.’

‘We are far from the gods, Chosen One,’ Jakob said, eyes narrowing. ‘Surely you can feel it too.’

‘Yes, their breath is but a gentle breeze here, and there’s something else in the air,’ Kurt said, closing his eyes, feeling the magic of the world around him with the strange sixth-sense the gods had gifted him with. ‘It smells like death.’

‘Yes, death hangs heavy, in the sky, in the sand, and even in the water,’ Jakob said. He then smiled at the Chosen Warrior, and grasped his arm with genuine affection. ‘Enjoy your glorious moment, Kurt, for none is happier than I that we have made it, that you surely know. It was once my ambition to see these golden sands and walk beneath this blistering sun, and you have brought me here, and for that I thank you. But be careful, the gods may not watch over you here. Tread warily on strange shores, as the sorcerer of my old tribe used to say.’

A frantic waving from a group of warriors atop one of the furthest dunes attracted their attention. They exchanged glances, Jakob’s last words floating in their minds. With a shrug, the sorcerer waved his hand over the side of the ship.

‘After you, glorious Chosen,’ Jakob said. Kurt glanced at him, a scowl on his face. ‘I’ll be following,’ the shaman added.

It was late afternoon as Kurt and Jakob made their way across the dunes, the Chosen making slow progress as he sunk into the sands on more than one occasion, slipping and stumbling as he clawed his way up the steep banks. He was in no particular hurry though – the shouts and gesticulations of the crew ahead were of excitement rather than fear.

‘Come on Chosen!’ said Snarri Gold-tooth, his grin glowing in the setting sun. ‘Look at this!’

Jakob reached the summit of the hill first and stopped dead as if struck, lost his footing, slipping to one knee. Kurt hauled himself up after, Snarri gripping his wrist to pull him to the crest.

From the hill Kurt could see a magnificent city laid out beneath them, some half-mile distant. Wide, colum-lined boulevards criss-crossed each other in geometric patterns, the spaces between filled with pyramids that rose into the sky, the worn gold of their capstones glinting fitfully. Temples with golden domes lay within high walled courtyards. Buildings with flat roofs filled the few gaps between them, statues standing guard outside their dark open doorways.

Kurt exhaled deeply, struck by the splendour of the settlement as it reflected the rays of the dying sun. Then a chill struck Kurt, a shiver of apprehension. The town looked dead. Areas that should surely have been gardens were full of bare rock and sand. There was no sign of bush nor tree, and the sculpted fountains lay dormant, sand filling their pools. Nothing walked the streets, no sentries patrolled the high sandstone wall and square towers that surrounded the silent city.

‘I have heard that the people of Araby pray to the setting sun,’ suggested Snarri.

‘And leave not a single man on the walls?’ scoffed Egil Longsword, a scowl on his reddened and blistered face. ‘I never heard it said that the people of Araby were fools.’

‘It’s deserted,’ Jakob said bluntly. ‘Not a thing grows there. It has been abandoned for many years.’

‘Perhaps there is plague,’ Egil said, clutching his fists to his heart as a sign of appeasement to Nierg, the lord of plague and decay.

‘There are no signs of battle,’ Kurt said, ignoring Egil. ‘The walls are intact.’

He glanced at the setting sun which blazed purple and red just above the horizon. Looking back down on the dead town, he remembered Jakob’s warning. They had journeyed far, and he could wait until tomorrow to uncover its secrets. Tonight, water and food were more important than treasure.

‘I’ll not venture into an unknown town by moonlight,’ he told the others, turning away. ‘We make camp on the shore by the ships, and take watch by watch to crew them should we need to leave.’

‘You think there might be danger?’ Lina Half-wolf said, her gaze flicking between Kurt and the abandoned settlement. ‘It’s as dead as a tomb down there. What threat can that be?’

‘We need to eat and drink,’ Kurt said. ‘And we have not travelled for these many weeks to throw our destiny away with impatience. Return to the ships and prepare camp, send out some hunting parties to see what this gods-forsaken shore has to offer.’

As the others made their way back down the hill, Kurt and Jakob stayed for a moment. The Chosen looked back over the city, at the long shadows that now stretched from its silent buildings. For a moment, it felt as if the town looked back and he shuddered and turned away. Tomorrow, it would reveal its secrets to them.

CHAPTER SEVEN

DISCONTENT

Arabian coast, Early summer 1711

Ahead and to the right of the caravan, the peaks of the Grey Mountains could be seen through breaks in the heavy cloud. From Marienburg they had set out along the south bank of the Reik, the horses and mules picking their way along the marsh-edged road of the Wasteland for several miles until the fens had given way to the vast, dark forests that swathed most of the lands of the Empire. Between the boles of trees hundreds of years old, the road wound its way south and east, crossing tributaries of the Reik at wide fords and low wooden bridges.

The expedition soon settled into a daily routine, and Ursula became quickly accustomed to her duties as maid to Lady Halste. She would rouse herself just after dawn, when the five cooks of the caravan had lit the breakfast fires and were breaking out the stores. The blacksmiths would stoke their portable furnaces, and the farriers would inspect the horses, the leatherworkers would repair broken saddles and harnesses, and the soldiers would clean their weapons.

As the soldiers sat down to their breakfasts, Ursula would prepare the lady’s morning meal and take it to her in the housewagon where she spent most of her time. The other maids would help the lady dress while Ursula laid out her plate and a glass of water. They would then leave her until summoned. Lady Halste was not a demanding woman most of the time, and much of Ursula’s work was to keep the others from pestering her. Lady Halste had insisted that she keep her privacy as much as possible, and Ursula was soon in the position of relaying questions and answers between the noblewoman and the others who were responsible for making the caravan run smoothly.

Each day, in the afternoon, Lady Halste would invite two or three of the other caravan members to dine with her aboard her housewagon. Ursula acted as servant at these occasions, and the lady’s guests ranged from the freelancers, to the mercenaries, to the lowliest cooper or kitchen assistant.

They would travel until an hour before nightfall, usually covering twenty miles each day, and then stop to make camp. After a week, the practiced efficiency of everyone made this chore quick and straightforward, and soon the field or clearing they had chosen for the campsite would be dotted with the three dozen large tents they carried with them, the horses corralled with rope fences, the wagons circled around the perimeter. The sentries would begin their night watches and the campfires would be lit.

In the evenings, Ursula fulfilled her role as the lady’s companion, often with Gerhardt, as they told her what they knew of the Empire’s history, of the different gods, and the people who lived in the Empire. Lady Halste listened intently to the stories, and yet never offered any tales from her own homeland. She spoke little about herself and her childhood, and asked little in the way of personal questions of her guests. This suited Ursula perfectly, as she had no desire to revisit her own years of unhappy wandering, and certainly did not want to talk about the months she had been hunted by Marius van Diesl or the heartbreaking events that had swept her up until the fateful clash between the witch hunter and Kurt in Tungask.

Ursula slept in her bedroll beneath the housewagon, so that she would be on hand if the lady needed her. Sometimes she would hear the noblewoman pacing back and forth long into the night, other times she would hear the lady shouting in her sleep, plagued by nightmares. The first time this happened, she had woken and dashed inside. She had found the lady awake, and as soon as Ursula had entered, the noblewoman had screamed at her to leave, throwing a slipper at the girl to hurry her on her way. The next day the lady had apologised, but warned Ursula not to disturb her unless invited. She sometimes suffered waking dreams, and it was not always safe to be around her. Ursula had happily agreed.

Ruprecht earned his keep as a soldier, standing watch and sentry when asked, keeping an eye on the other travellers whose path crossed their own on occasion. There were times when the soldiers mustered together, the scouts having returned with news of beastman or goblin tracks nearby, but other than these occasional alarms, their journey was relatively peaceful.

A man named Grunner Schwartzhelm, most senior of the freelances, had been given command of the expedition, and Lady Halste deferred to his experience and knowledge on most matters. He had led them away from the main road after ten days, wary of the orcs and goblins of Gorbad Ironclaw that were ravaging the land somewhere ahead of them. Lady Halste also had no desire to travel too close to the Reikland capital itself, Altdorf. Unwelcome questions might be asked concerning their business.

Ursula had at first been dismayed by the lady’s insistence that they hide their true purpose from the merchants, pilgrims and other travellers they occasionally met. Although it was only a half-truth they had been asked to tell – they were visiting Karak Norn to pay homage to the dwarfs – Ursula had felt the deception unnecessary. Lady Halste had been insistent that if word of their quest became known, they would be in great danger from the other counts, who would seek to waylay them, or perhaps mount their own claim for Ulfshard. Lady Halste assured Ursula that she understood her opinion, and in fact had come to rely on it on several matters, but in this case she would not be persuaded otherwise.

Fourteen days after setting out, Ursula realised why the lady was so reluctant to discuss their dealings with others. They had met with a patrol of soldiers, dressed in the red and blue uniforms of Altdorf. Their clothes were slightly ragged, their weapons in poor repair. Their captain, a broad-shouldered man every inch as tall as Ruprecht, had arrayed his fifty men across the road, spears at the ready, handguns primed. A long discourse had taken place between him and Schwartzhelm, later joined by Lady Halste. Ursula had been tempted to go forward and speak herself, but as soon as she had taken a few steps towards the front of the wagon line, Wildfather Taalstock had stepped in front and barred her way.

‘There are some matters which concern those of great faith,’ he had said, gently grasping her arm and leading her to the board of his own cart, ‘and some matters which do not.’

Ursula had argued with him for a while, but in the end the tender persistence of Gerhardt had convinced her not to get involved. To distract her from her worrying, he had taught her the true names of the various plants that grew on the roadside, and of the different birds that occasionally fluttered overhead, and the small creatures that scurried cautiously between the cart’s wheels.

For most of that afternoon, the negotiations had continued, the caravan’s mercenaries easing their weapons in their scabbards, the flagellants wailing and moaning to the skies, the Reiklanders poised to unleash a devastating volley of lead. In the end the patrol captain ordered the Reiklanders aside. Wheels rumbling along the deep ruts of the roads, the wagons had moved off again under the glares of the soldiers and with an insincere wave from their commander. When Ursula later asked what had happened, Lady Halste had said that she had agreed to pay the toll for using the road. Ursula did not realise at first what the lady had meant, but that night had spoken with Ruprecht, voicing her suspicions that the soldiers had been bribed. Ruprecht had laughed and told her that she was right, and that had been the captain’s intent from the start. Dismayed by the corruption that now seemed to her to be prevalent across the whole Empire, Ursula had slept fitfully that night.

As the expedition’s route turned more southerly to skirt the Skaag Hills, the rain that had soaked them constantly since leaving Marienburg gave way to overcast skies. As summer approached, the air grew warmer, and the sound of storms thundering over the Grey Mountains could be heard when the wind was from the west.

Reaching the River Bogen, they followed the tributary of the Reik to the town of Bogenhafen. The old market town sat on a junction of roads from Nuln, Helmgart and Altdorf, and its ferry was the only way to cross the Bogen for many leagues in each direction. Lady Halste agreed to a day’s break in their journeying so that the tired expedition could rest outside Bogenhafen before making the crossing.

Here they had bought new supplies, and stayed for a few days to refresh themselves. Ursula had sought out a shrine to Sigmar and spent the first day praying in thanks to the god for guiding her to this noble endeavour, while Ruprecht busied himself around the town, talking to the townsfolk and other travellers to gather what intelligence he could of the road ahead. In particular, he learned much from the boatsmen and traders as he wandered the wharfs of the Ostendamm. Many of the others did the same, grateful for any news from Marienburg, or Altdorf, or even further afield.

What they heard did not bode well. Before his horde had fallen on Solland, Gorbad had sacked Nuln, sending a flood of refugees to Altdorf. Then having taken the Solland Runefang, the Ironclaw had moved northwards along the Upper Reik, smashing an army led by the Count of Wissenland, leaving his capital of Wissenburg unprotected against the attacks of orcs drawn down from the Grey Mountains by the lure of war and plunder. The people who had survived had then endured a desperate winter with little food or shelter, and famine and disease killed more than the brutal orcs had done. With spring now arrived, it was hoped that the rebuilding of Wissenburg might begin, but brigands had gathered in large numbers to prey on the helpless people of Wissenland.

The orc warlord and his army had spent the winter camped on the Reik, having taken the town of Kemperbad. Now, it was claimed, his army encircled Altdorf itself. The caravan was safe only by a matter of days; if they had set out a week earlier, they might have been caught up in the invasion. Even now, marauding bands of greenskins that had splintered from the main army were falling upon settlements all through the Reikland forests. Although insufficient in number to threaten walled towns such as Bögenhafen, Ubersreik and Grünburg, these raiding mobs had burned down many farms and looted several trade convoys.

Ursula overheard many heated discussions between Lady Halste and Schwartzhelm concerning the future of the expedition. The knight was in two minds whether to advance, and insisted that if they were to continue they needed to hire more soldiers. Lady Halste was adamant that the additional expense was beyond her, and that the safety and secrecy of her mission would be threatened if she were to employ men of the Reikland. Schwartzhelm resigned his position and left the convoy, and his departure cast a pall over the expedition.

History recounts that Schwartzhelm went north and fought later that year at the siege of Altdorf, where the self-proclaimed Emperor Sigismund was slain by Wyverns. He saved the dead count’s Runefang from Gorbad’s clutches, and became personal champion to Sigismund’s son. Since that act, the Schwartzhelms have ever remained as bodyguards to the Princes of Altdorf.

For the convoy, the road ahead was also uncertain. Lady Halste, having started out as a reasonable and educated leader, had become increasingly prone to tantrums and fits of depression. Ursula, who acted as maid along with two other girls, Catherine and Dameld, had heard the lady muttering angrily to herself and had sometimes returned to the luxurious housewagon in which Lady Halste travelled to find a chair shattered, or broken ornaments strewn upon the floor.

After her apparent betrayal by Schwartzhelm, Lady Halste refused to let anyone else lead the convoy, even though there were several amongst the dogs of war she had hired who were suitable for the task. For the next twenty days, she insisted that there be no contact with anyone else, and travelling pedlars, hermits, farmers and the other folk they met were all greeted with silence and sullen stares from the convoy’s people.

They travelled for days without seeing any sign of other human life, following the winding roads through the dark forests, occasionally passing over a stream or skirting a still lake. The gloom of the deep woods pervaded everything, and the mood of the expedition was sombre. All except Gerhardt Taalstock.

The Wildfather was in a constant state of contentment. He spent much time in conversation with Ursula, telling her about the creatures of the sky, the earth and beneath the ground. The weasel, Louda, was always with him, and when Gerhardt visited Ursula, his small friend would nestle in her lap or curl up on her shoulder and fall asleep.

The Wildfather explained that he had found Louda nearly twenty years earlier, lying beside a road, badly injured by a cartwheel. The priest had taken the near-dead weasel to the shrine he tended and laid him upon the sacred stones. He did not know why he had done it – the same force that had guided him to follow the birds to Lady Halste had moved within him – but the next day, Louda was as fit and healthy as a weasel in the prime of life. When Gerhardt had gone to check on his ward, Louda had sprung up from where he had been lying in the sacred cairn and headed off into the forest. The priest had followed. For several miles, Louda had led him along winding game trails and round the twisting boles of the forest, taking him out of the woods into the farmlands.

There, the Wildfather had found a cart tipped off the road, the bales of hay it had been carrying strewn over the verge. The driver was dead, crushed underneath the wreck. The muddy track was criss-crossed with hoofprints, of deer and wild boar, and it was then that Gerhardt realised Louda was more than just an animal, he was one of the many mortal messengers of Taal. The god of wild beasts had exacted his retribution for the injury done to his servant.

Gerhardt had not consciously kept Louda with him, but the weasel had followed him back to his home and had remained his companion since. Louda’s longevity for one of his kind, Gerhardt told Ursula, was more evidence that the weasel was favoured amongst creatures. Ursula had laughed when Gerhardt told her that they spoke to each other about the places of the world they had seen, and the Wildfather had grown uncharacteristically angry. He warned her against mocking the gods, any gods, and left in a fury. Louda had stayed behind for a few moments, watching her with his beady black eyes, before skipping off the driving board of the wagon and following the priest.

Oft-times, the priest’s small mule-drawn cart would be pulled over from the convoy and the priest could be seen sitting in contemplation, eyes closed, as he listened to the sounds of the forest. The soldiers and other travellers whispered to each other about this odd behaviour, claiming that they saw his lips moving as if in communion with some power, though none could fathom the language he was speaking.

On the twenty-third day after setting out from Marienburg they came into sight of Wissenburg. The large town had been devastated, the fields for miles around razed and trampled by the orc and goblin hordes. For the last few days they had been travelling across the open fields that skirt the foothill of the Grey Mountains, leaving the dense forests behind. To the west the mountains reared up, dark and implacable, their peaks shrouded in low cloud. Everywhere they travelled they found signs of Gorbad’s ferocious advance, from the ruined farmsteads along the road to the piles of bodies, human and greenskin, that marked the places of smaller battles. They had been stripped of all clothing and equipment, either by the victorious goblins, or the ghoulish human corpse-robbers who eked a living following the armies of the Empire and selling on whatever they could salvage.

Around Wissenburg itself, the dispossessed people of Wissenland gathered like vermin, clustering around the shattered ruins of the town in a shanty of tents and huts built from scavenged debris. The town itself was battered but standing, the walls breached in many places, the larger buildings inside – the temples, courthouses and treasuries – were burnt-out shells. The vast refugee encampment was inhabited by thousands of people, driven from their villages and farms by the orc advance. Hoping for succour they had fled to their capital, only to have their desperate hopes dashed when the Ironclaw had routed the army of the count many miles to the north. Much of the populace had fled into the Grey Mountains, many of them later dying in mudslides brought by the spring rains, or killed by marauding wolf-riding goblins, beastmen and other foul creatures – raiders usually kept in check by the patrols of the count’s army that had ventured forth from the forests, ranging ever further to despoil and loot.

Starving and hopeless, the people of Wissenland, many of whom had been driven from Solland the year before, had gathered together to try to eke some kind of existence from their desperate plight. They gathered around the caravan, begging for food. The soldiers had to form a line around the wagons, as bands of desperate men closed in, carrying cudgels and pikes, sensing an opportunity to loot what they could. The handguns and spears of Lady Halste’s bodyguard were too formidable though, and they pressed on through the gathering crowd amidst shouted pleas and curses.

Seeing the starved children running half-naked through the mud, grown men weeping on their knees, hearing the wailing of women who had lost loved ones to fighting or famine, drove Ursula to despair.

‘There must be something we can do to help them,’ she said to Lady Halste. ‘We can’t just leave them like this!’

The lady turned to her, her face grim.

‘There is nothing we can do,’ she said, her expression sad. ‘The only hope for these people is for the Empire to be united again, so that they might be protected from more woes. If we return Ulfshard to our count, they might have hope again.’

The lady’s words struck a chord with Ursula and she did not protest when she ordered the expedition to move on. As the convoy made its slow progress south and westward, skirting the borders of the shanty town, Ursula strayed from their route and wandered tearfully amongst the desolation. The flagellants who had joined them at Marienburg were running through the winding makeshift streets, screeching their apocalyptic creed, whipping themselves and exhorting the people to join them. More than a few did, driven to insanity by their loss and grief. Many were enraptured by the doom-laden oratory of the flagellants’ leader, who told them to cast off their worldly possessions, and scourge themselves of the evil within their souls that had brought the wrath of the gods down upon them.

Lady Halste bemoaned the growing number of flagellants that flocked to the caravan. Their presence unsettled everybody, but the company was powerless to stop their mad chanting and deranged wailing as they tagged along behind the wagons and carts, hurling abuse at all and sundry.

Wildfather Taalstock caught up with Ursula as she solemnly watched a priest of Morr consecrating a mass grave to his god. Robed in black, the gaunt man looked like a raven as he picked his way through the corpses, muttering prayers and sprinkling the bodies with blessed water so that they would not rise from their graves.

‘Do you think they have found peace?’ she asked Gerhardt as he jumped off his cart beside her. He eyed the grim ceremony and shook his head.

‘Perhaps, but I could not say for sure,’ he told her. ‘Their bodies will return to Taal, and Morr-willing their souls shall find rest. Yet they died in misery, and who knows what dark thoughts plagued them on their deaths, what unnatural bargains they pleaded for to save themselves? All things die, whether it be the greatest Emperor, or the lowliest insect.’

‘And you find comfort in that?’ said Ursula.

Gerhardt did not reply for a long while, and they stood there listening to the cries of the mourners and the bass chanting of the priest.

‘It is not the lot of the gods to give us comfort,’ he finally said. ‘The gods are what they are. They shape the world, but it is up to us to live in it, and find the ways and means to survive the trials they give us, and be thankful for the gifts they bestow upon us. Without death, there can be no life. Without the slaughtered cattle, the reaped wheat, there would be no food for us. Without the rabbit, the fox would starve. Some try to make sense of it, to divine a higher purpose in our lives, and they become philosophers and theologists. Others believe that we are mere playthings of the immortals, and it drives them mad, like our apocalyptic companions over there.’

‘And as a priest?’ Ursula asked, turning and looking straight at him. ‘How does a priest reconcile this with meaning or meaninglessness?’

‘As a priest,’ the wildfather told her, leaning close, ‘one accepts that it does not matter. The gods are what they are. We are what we are.’

‘Is that it?’ Ursula said, laughing harshly. Gerhardt nodded once and turned away, pulling himself back onto the cart. With a spoken word, the mule pricked up his ears and broke into a canter, leaving Ursula standing amongst the moaning and the desperation, watching the bereaved as they filed away from their lost ones, following the tolling handbell of the priest of Morr.

They made camp a few miles west of Wissenburg. The atmosphere even more subdued than ever. Ursula had tried to comfort some of those who had fled the fighting, urging them to take up arms, to battle against the enemy in the name of Sigmar. Mostly she had been met with indifference. On one occasion those who had listened to her had grown angry, hurling insults and driving her away with thrown stones and curses. That night, she wept as she lay in her blankets underneath Lady Halste’s housewagon.

When she woke, Ursula felt no sadness left. Instead, she felt a deep-rooted anger simmering inside. The Empire was a mockery of the great land created by Sigmar. As if in defiance of His great deeds, orcs were again laying waste to His people, and there seemed to be none who could stop them. Everything He had striven for, fought and bled for, had been cast down by the greed of petty, short-sighted men. Remembering the reactions to her impassioned speeches of the previous day, she realised that words were no longer enough. For centuries, priests and nobles had talked about the rebirth of the Empire. Yet none had managed it, none had shown the true way forward. It was not through words that the Empire had been forged, but in Sigmar’s strength of arms and his deeds on the battlefield. He had not asked the tribes to follow him, he had demanded it of them, shown them what could be achieved if they stood together, bled together, and died together.

Resolve burned like a flame in Ursula’s heart as she rose from her rough bier, packed away her bedroll and stood watching the dawn rise. A summer storm, dark and terrible, loomed on the horizon, yet the rays of the sun found breaks to shine through, bathing the lands of Sigmar in a blood-red hue. Lady Halste’s words came to Ursula as she watched the rising sun: ‘There will still be fighting and dying to be done. But if nobody stands up and grasps the thorn, then nobody will be able to smell the rose.’

She pulled herself up to the door of the housewagon and quietly let herself in, creeping across the boards so as not to wake Lady Halste. Opening the single chest that contained her belongings – many of them gifted to her by the lady before they set out so that she might be dressed as befitted the maid of a noble – she delved to the bottom of the delicate dresses, blouses and skirts and pulled out a bundle wrapped in an old travel-stained cloak. Unrolling it, she pulled free her scabbard and the curved Kislevite blade held within, and strapped it around her waist.

Sigmar was a god of warriors, Ruprecht had reminded her, worshipped on the field of battle. Ursula sensed that there would be bloodshed ahead, and she would let her sword pray for her now. No more words, she reminded herself, deeds counted for more. Touching the hilt for self-assurance, she opened the door and stepped back outside. Thunder rumbled in the distance, flickers of lightning playing across the sky a few miles ahead. The air was close and humid, pressure building as the storm front came closer. Wind tugged at Ursula’s hair and fanned the flames of the breakfast cooking fires.

A few of the mercenaries saw her walking through the camp, looking up from their repast. A couple made jokes that fell flat when their companions saw her grim expression. Ursula walked to the edge of the camp and watched the storm approach, her hand on the sword’s hilt.

Let it come, she told herself.

For two days the storm raged, keeping all but the most foolish or hardy to their encampment. The ashen field in which they camped had quickly turned into mire, and with the rain had come hailstones that had fallen like bullets, stinging flesh and ripping tentcloth. Some of the horses had panicked and bolted for shelter, kicking down the rough rope corral they were kept in and starting a stampede. One of the farriers, a man named Dieter Veist, had been killed as he tried to stop the beasts, trampled under their hooves, his bloodied body found the next morning buried deep in the sucking mud.

Its rage vented, the storm had become a steady drizzle of rain, not unpleasant in the warm summer air. Slowly the convoy organised itself again, as the horses were tracked down and brought back, broken axles were mended, and cartwheels dug out of the sodden ground.

They set off under the watery midmorning sun, a bright rainbow stretching across the sky behind them. Gerhardt was riding a little way ahead on his small mulecart, singing a mellow song in his low voice, the verses drifting down the convoy. It struck Ursula as particularly melancholic, but she listened harder and realised that it was not a lament.

He sung of the ancient, wild places of the world. The tune swept on through the eyes of an eagle soaring over the mountain tops, the woodland glade where the stags matched antler to antler, and the burrows beneath the earth where the mole and the beetle matched their wits against each other. In his lilting voice, he sang about the joy of the hare as it raced free from the fox, and the gruff woes of the wild boar as he stared down the wolf. Gerhardt’s voice rose in triumph to tell of the osprey as he hunted the salmon, and dropped deep and slow to sing the tale of the black bear fishing for salmon. His voice conjured up vistas of babbling mountain streams and deep green forest dells hidden from the great eye of the sun. The wildfather sang of the strange, sightless world of the bat, and the daily toil of the dormouse to feed its family.

The song brought an air of peace over the expedition, soothing woes, making the petty problems of day-to-day life seem insignificant against the great sweeping majesty of nature. When he finished, quiet descended on the column as it wound its way up a rutted track into the foothills of the Grey Mountains, and the drizzling rain stopped for a while.

Ursula ran ahead and leapt up onto the cart beside the wildfather. Beside his mule walked Ruprecht, and a freelance called Johannes rode his horse on the other side.

‘Where did you learn that?’ Ursula asked, her earlier anger replaced with wonder. No hymn to Sigmar had ever sounded so beautiful, or so old.

‘It is the Lay of Taal,’ Ruprecht said. It was then that Ursula saw that the wildfather’s head was nodding against his chest, his eyes closed. Louda sat on his shoulder, his eyes alert. He jumped over to Ursula’s lap and sat there, still watchful.

‘It is sung in Talabheim on the feast days of Taal,’ Johannes said. ‘Offerings to the god of the wild are laid on the Talabec, his sacred river, and we sing of the things he watches over and brings to us.’

‘You learned it as children?’ Ursula asked, looking from Johannes to Ruprecht.

‘Yes and no,’ Ruprecht said, and he smiled when Ursula scowled at this unsatisfactory answer. ‘There is no song to learn except the song that Taal puts in your heart. There are uncounted creatures upon the face of the world, and unnumbered places where Taal’s spirit dwells. Each wildfather sings a different song, of the things he has seen and the animals he has conversed with. Over the centuries, over thousands of years, the Lay of Taal teaches us what has changed in the world and what has remained the same.’

‘The wildfather here is very gifted,’ added Johannes, nodding towards Gerhardt. ‘He has sung this many times, and has been to many places.’

Overhead, a flock of ravens whirled in the air, their cries echoing on the damp wind. Louda leapt from Ursula back to Gerhardt’s shoulder and nuzzled at his ear. The wildfather awoke immediately, eyes sparkling with moisture, and turned to Johannes.

‘Something is wrong!’ Gerhardt said to the knight. ‘Where are the scouts?’

‘They have not returned yet,’ Johannes said. ‘The road ahead was clear for several miles when they reported an hour ago.’

‘And when are they due back again?’ said Gerhardt, rising on the board and casting his gaze around. ‘The ravens do not lie!’

‘Halt the wagons!’ Ruprecht bellowed, pulling his large warhammer from his belt and striding back down the line. ‘Johannes, ride ahead.’

Casting a glance at Gerhardt’s fearful expression, Johannes dug in his spurs and his horse galloped forward in a spray of water and mud. Ursula jumped down from the cart and jogged after Ruprecht, who was calling the soldiers to arms.

‘What is the meaning of this delay?’ said Lady Halste, standing at the open door of her caravan. ‘And why do you have a sword in your hand, girl?’

Ursula had not realised she had drawn the weapon and stared at it for a moment before coming to her senses.

‘The wildfather fears danger,’ she said. ‘Perhaps an attack is imminent.’

‘But the scouts saw nothing, I spoke to them myself,’ said the lady.

‘Better to delay and be prepared than continue and be taken unawares, my lady,’ Ruprecht said.

‘Of course,’ Lady Halste said with a nod. ‘I leave our safety in the capable hands of yourself and the other soldiers. Ursula, my sweet, come here where we will be safe.’

‘This sword is not just for show,’ Ursula said, holding it up. As droplets gathered on the blade she realised that it had begun to rain once more, and she looked up to see low grey clouds.

Lady Halste seemed about to argue when there was a great shout from the head of the wagon line. Johannes came galloping along the road, his sword in his hand. As he neared, Ursula saw that his left shoulder was pierced with a black-shafted arrow.

‘Orcs, a mile ahead, mayhap less!’ he said, almost falling from his saddle. ‘They have boar cavalry with them.’

The convoy was in uproar as the soldiers busied themselves getting ready. As they ran to and fro, jostling with each other, the mercenary captains arguing amongst themselves, Ursula realised that there was no real organisation. There was no commander to order the line and prepare the defence.

‘We’ll be cut to pieces if we’re not ready,’ said Ruprecht, reaching the same conclusion. ‘We have to gather the wagons together, form a defensive perimeter. Johannes, get the other knights, ride along the line and take control.’

‘Damn that treacherous Schwartzhelm,’ said Lady Halste.

‘Save your damnations for later and hide yourself away!’ Ruprecht said. For a moment she bristled at his impudence and was about to remonstrate with him, but he had already turned away and was running down the line towards a company of handgunners. She looked plaintively at Ursula, who gave her an encouraging nod and then also set off at a run. Her shoulders sagging, the lady turned away and closed the heavy door of the housewagon.

Ruprecht was sure he was no strategist, but in consultation with the captains of the dogs of war, they hastily put a rough plan in place. They had only a few minutes, if Johannes had seen right, before the greenskins would be upon them. The wagons and carts were drawn into a rough square across the road, which had followed a great loop and was running to the north-west into the Grey Mountains. Those wagons that could be emptied quickly were turned on their sides to form barricades. The high-sided housewagon of Lady Halste was at the centre and the best marksmen with gun, crossbow or bow were positioned on top, eight men in total.

Leonard and his Black Company of swordsmen were positioned to the north, and stood ready with their pistols, their long zweihanders hung from loops across their backs. They were flanked by Hurlitzon’s Handgunners to their right, and to the left by the crossbowmen of Dulciatta Vianda, a swarthy Tilean. Longbowmen lined the wagons across the road, with Ursula, Ruprecht and Gerhardt in front of them. Though Ruprecht had urged him to seek shelter, the wildfather had insisted that his place was at the front, and that he was more than capable of handling himself. Ursula had looked at the elderly priest with disbelief, and he had turned and winked at her.

‘Trust me, young lady, you don’t live out in the wilds to my age if you can’t handle yourself in a fight,’ he said. Louda was sitting on his shoulder, bobbing excitedly and making odd hisses and squeaks.

With them stood a few others who had gained employment individually. To Ruprecht’s right was the lean swordsman, Carsten ven Boer, a tarnished circle of gold riveted into his face over the empty socket of his left eye. He was grinning toothlessly at Louda’s antics, a heavy-bladed falchion in his hand. Just to Ursula’s left was the short, wiry figure of Keiner Soval, a notched single-bladed axe in each hand. He stood joking with the broad-shouldered ex-sailor called Vorst, who was busily loading and priming one of the twelve pistols he carried on his belt with two long bandoleers across his chest.

To their left were the men of the Red Spear Company, their crimson-shafted demi-pikes held ready, their leader at the front, a porcine man with a quick wit who had given his name as Swinefever. The smell from the spearmen, whose personal hygiene had been a constant source of complaint from Lady Halste, wafted over Ursula and she turned her head away. Despite their ragged appearance, their spear tips were clean and sharp, and they moved with discipline and determination.

Further up the road, the flagellants had gathered, now three times their original number after the misery of Wissenburg. They stripped the skin from their brethren with whips, and ripped at their long unkempt hair with broken fingernails. They gave up a great clamour, ringing brass bells and banging tin drums with their hands and heads, shrieking and bellowing to the sky and to each other. They capered around in their bare feet, picking up pointed stones and dug them into their flesh. Some had long matted beards woven with pieces of masonry and wood that they had taken from the shattered ruins of the temples in Wissenburg, and one carried the stone hammer from a statue of Sigmar strapped across his back, its weight bending him almost double.

It had been decided that the freelances should be held in reserve, and were hidden out of sight beyond the carts, further to the south-east. A brazier had been lit behind the barricade and the bowmen each carried an arrow soaked in pitch. Should the enemy break through, it was their job to fire an arrow into the air in the direction of the problem and the freelances would come forward and fill any gap that the greenskins managed to make in the line.

That was as far as they had planned, and it was up to each soldier to look after himself and, if possible, look to his neighbour for support or to lend help. If the fighting went poorly, Ruprecht knew, the sellswords would soon scatter and take their chances on their own. They were paid to fight, and had been given a considerable retainer to do so, but a man who fought for money would always prefer to live and earn money again than die for a cause he did not necessarily believe in.

There was movement up ahead, and a few ragged banners appeared over the crest of the hill that the road passed over some three hundred yards away. Skulls daubed in black paint hung from crude crosspoles, accompanied by bones and scraps of armour. Over a dozen rotten heads were hung by their hair on the largest banner, which was topped by a large icon shaped from iron, roughly beaten into a fanged face.

A discordant banging of drums heralded the orc advance, as the greenskins strode forward over the hill. They were split into roughly three groups, each clustered about a banner and a drummer, and they clattered their axes and maces against the bare wood of their shields as they marched. A space at the centre opened, and through the gap came their warlord.

Seated astride a gigantic warboar, itself the height of a man, the orc towered over his minions. Behind him, the toughest fighters rode on lesser boars, their tusks tipped with iron blades, their hooves studded with bloodstained nails. The warlord was clad in greasy iron armour, his arms protected by overlapping plates, a round breastplate strapped to his chest. His massive, bucket-jawed head was guarded by a helmet that was pierced by two long antlers, from which hung severed hands of varying sizes, some of them clawed and twisted, and obviously not human.

He raised a wicked double-headed axe in his right hand and the horde stopped, spreading out to either side of him, falling silent at his command. Out and out they expanded, the warlord showing off the strength of his band before they attacked.

‘Over a hundred, maybe a hundred and twenty, I guess,’ Ven Boer said, no longer grinning.

‘I reckon you’re right,’ Ruprecht said, turning to look over his shoulder at the crossbowmen.

Dulciatta Vianda raised his arm in acknowledgement and his crossbowmen brought their weapons to their shoulders. In the quiet, Ursula heard the bowmen behind her grunting as they notched arrows and pulled back on their longbows.

They loosed a ragged volley, red-flighted bolts and yellow-shafted arrows arcing into the air and down into the greenskins. Some of the missiles caught on shields, others missed, or hit the orcs but without effect. However, half a dozen of the greenskins fell to the ground and did not rise.

The orcs began their clamouring again, drums poundings, weapons clattering, their coarse yells filling the air. At another signal from their warlord, there was a single unified crash of drumbeats and a loud bellow, and the orcs began to advance, falling in behind their banners. Two more volleys of arrows and another flight of crossbow bolts sped over the shortening space between the two forces, leaving dead and writhing orcs on the roadside. The flagellants ahead of Ursula were hooting and hollering wildly, and without any warning, suddenly began to run up the road towards the greenskins, mouths frothing, whips and flails whirling over their heads.

‘They’ll be surrounded, cut down!’ said Vorst, spitting on the ground.

‘We must hold our ground!’ said Ruprecht, grabbing the sailor as he started forward, hauling him back into line. ‘If we can’t fall back inside the wagons we’re all dead.’

The orcs broke into a lumbering run as the flagellants hurled themselves headlong up the road, the greenskins opening up in front of them and circling wide. Shrieking and wailing, the apocalyptic cult members threw themselves towards the warlord who was shouting orders at his green-skinned rabble.

With a bellow of crude war cries and the crash of axes and cleavers, the orcs smashed into the flagellants, blades biting into flesh, smashing bone and dismembering the doomed maniacs. Unmindful of their dead brethren, the survivors tore back at the orcs, flails and whips lacerating dark green flesh, battering aside their skull-emblazoned shields. Those without any weapons bit and clawed at the orcs, to little avail, as the greenskins hammered home with blunt swords and jagged knives. More orcs joined the fight from the north side of the road, cleaving into the flagellants and trampling them beneath heavy hobnailed boots.

In a few more swift seconds, the first fight of the battle was over and the orcs swept onwards. Some of them lifted the bloody corpses of the flagellants above their heads, and one, still writhing in pain, was tied up to a banner pole by his own rags, a knife driven through his shoulder to pin him in place. The flagellant raged and struggled, blood flowing freely from his wounds, kicking and lashing out at the orcs beneath him, and then he fell silent, his bearded face dropping to his chest.

Freed from the chance of hitting their own allies, the bowmen and crossbowmen resumed shooting, concentrating their arrows and bolts on a group of orcs that were sweeping wide to the south, attempting to encircle their position. Faced with the unstopping storm of steel-tipped missiles, the orcs were falling in considerable numbers, half of them dead or wounded, and the advance faltered. A few more fell to the next volley and the orcs turned and began to race back up the hill, the twenty or so survivors desperate to get out of range of the murderous hail. The warlord bellowed in anger and pointed his axe at his standard bearer, who raised it high in the air and then dipped it, repeating the action three times.

At the signal, brash horn blasts sounded from the north, just beneath the crest of the hill. It was swiftly followed by a chorus of high-pitched shouts and long howls, and a moment later a dark wave swept rapidly over the hill.

‘Wolf riders!’ rasped der Boer with a vicious grin. ‘They owe me an eye!’

The wolf-mounted goblins raced down the hill, twisted spears held aloft, a banner made from a score of wolftails matted with blood held high at their centre. Their leader stood up in his saddle at their head, a scimitar pointing forwards, and gave a shrill shout, angling his blade eastwards.

A bang rang out from behind Ursula and a moment later the standard bearer was plucked from his saddle and fell beneath the claws of the galloping wolves. Another goblin stooped low and pulled free the downed standard, and the charge continued. Glancing over her shoulder, Ursula saw a puff of smoke surrounding one of the marksmen on the roof of the housewagon, quickly reloading his long handgun. The bowmen on the wagon line looked between the wolf riders racing around the perimeter and the orcs who were advancing at a jog down the road.

‘The orcs, shoot the orcs!’ Ruprecht shouted at them, pointing to the burly greenskins. The bowmen hesitated, but their leader, Ornost Fleik, gave a shout and they resumed their shooting at the muscle-bound warriors trampling towards them.

Muskets barked in quick succession as Hurlitzon and his company of handgunners opened fire on the goblins, the first volley scything through the wolf-riding greenskins, cutting down ten or more of their number. Their outflanking manoeuvre slowed, but their leader gave a shrill cry and they picked up pace again and turned towards the wagons, swiftly changing their direction of attack straight towards the handgunners, who were hastily reloading.

It was clear that they would not have time before the wolf riders were upon them.

The Black Company marched forward, advancing a few paces in time to the shouts of Leonard, their broadswords slapping at their backs, pistols couched over their shoulders. With another shout, they stopped and levelled their weapons at the fast-approaching goblins, and at their leader’s command opened fire in a single volley. The air echoed with the crack of thirty pistols and a great plume of smoke rose up from their position as goblins were torn from their saddles by the bullets.

With one smooth motion, the Black Company holstered their pistols and drew their swords, a forest of sharpened blades flourished in the air. With cool discipline, the mercenaries then closed up into a three-rank formation and steadied themselves to meet the goblin charge.

The wolves howled and slavered as they closed, the goblins urging on their lupine mounts with the butts of their spears. In a wave of fur and spears, they fell upon the Black Company, wolves leaping and biting, iron-tipped spears driving into the bodies of the unarmoured swordsmen. As the first rank fell beneath the onslaught, the back ranks stepped forward, zweihanders slicing through the wolves and goblins in clean strokes, severing heads and limbs.

The impetus of their charge now dissipated, the goblins were ill-matched against the disciplined swordplay of the Black Company. It would only be a matter of time before they died or, more likely, fled.

Ursula didn’t have time to see the Black Company’s victory.

A thunderous roar from ahead snapped her attention back to the orcs in front of their position. Though considerably thinned by the merciless missile fire of the crossbows, the orcs still outnumbered the defenders. With their right flank still battling with the wolf riders, it was up to the Red Spear and the others to face the full force of the orc charge.

It began with the warlord and his boar riders. The ground trembled as the tusked beasts broke into a lumbering run, the road churned up into flying mud in their wake. The warlord held his axe over his head, the blade glittering dangerously, his wordless bellow displaying a set of fearsome fangs.

The soldiers of the Red Spear Company took a few paces forward and braced their demi-pikes against the ground. Beside Ursula, Ruprecht gripped his hammer in both hands and took a couple of practice swings, while der Boer brought his sword up into a guard position. The ex-sailor, Vorst, drew the first of his many pistols and a shot rang out, but the ball whistled over the head of the charging orcs. Throwing the pistol aside, he drew another and fired again, this time splintering the shield of one of the boarboys. Throwing that pistol aside, he continued to draw and fire, one hand on hip in the manner of a duellist, until a small pile of smoking pistols lay at his feet. His one-man fusillade had felled four of the orcs, but the others rushed on towards them.

Ursula could feel the ground trembling through the soles of her boots as the weighty boars closed in. Panic began to rise in her stomach and she held her sword with a shaking hand. I’m not a warrior, she told herself, what was I thinking? Her blade seemed thin and flimsy compared to the cleavers and spears of the onrushing greenskins, and yet felt uncomfortably heavy in her hand, the blade dipping towards the ground.

The boar riders pounded on and were now only twenty yards away. Ursula could see their glinting red eyes, the bloodstains on their weapons, and hear the panting grunts of their tusked mounts.

Gerhardt shouldered his way past der Boer, who had positioned himself in front of the priest as a self-proclaimed bodyguard. The sellsword reached out to grab the wildfather, but the old man nimbly stepped out of his grasp and took a few paces forward to stand alone in front of the thundering orc charge.

Raising his hands above his head, he began to shout out in a tongue that none of the others could understand, Louda bobbing up and down feverishly on his shoulder. The orcs were only ten paces away now.

With a last triumphant yell, the wildfather threw his hands forward, fingers splayed wide.

The boars stopped in their tracks as if poleaxed, and Ursula later swore that the largest, ridden by the warlord, actually went cross-eyed, its pupils disappearing upwards. Brought to a sudden halt, the boars stumbled and fell, pitching their riders forward, some of them managing to cling on to their beastly steeds, many of them tossed into the mud of the road. The warlord was flung forwards and slipped sideways as the boar’s legs crumpled beneath it, and he slid from the saddle onto his knees.

The others needed no prompting and charged forward past the wildfather, hammers, axes, cutlasses and falchions scything into the disorganised orcs. Ursula threw herself forwards as well, not really thinking, yelling a praise to Sigmar at the top of her voice.

She was confronted by a huge boar rider, who was picking up his long axe from the ground. The orc looked up at her, fingers curling around the haft of the axe, red eyes full of malice, toothed maw twisting in a bestial snarl. Ursula rammed the tip of her sword at the orc, aiming for its throat, but the blow went low and punctured its crude leather breastplate and stuck. As the orc rose to its feet, axe in hand, Ursula tightened her grip and wrenched the sword free. The orc swung its axe over its head, but Ursula reacted quickly, her light blade giving her the edge. She drew the tip across the orc’s face, cutting across its blunt, upturned nose, and it howled in agony, dropping its axe in midswing. The green-skinned monster turned and jumped back into the press of bodies, trailing dark blood, its plaintive yowling swallowed by the fury of the combat.

Ruprecht swept his hammer left and right, cracking bones and crushing armour beneath the heavy swings. A cleaver swung towards his midriff and he blocked it with the handle of the axe, using the haft to push the blow aside and kicking out at the orc wielding it, sending it reeling back into the throng.

Der Boer was cutting his way through the orcs with long strokes of his sword, severing limbs and biting into tough green flesh with every blow, swaying left and right between the clumsy counter-attacks of the enemy. Ursula was mesmerised by his efficiency, his golden eye patch spattered with orc blood.

Suddenly, der Boer was flung backwards, his torso parting from his legs in a crimson explosion of blood, the shattered remnants of his falchion spinning through the air.

The orc warlord strode through the gap, its bloodied axe held out in front of it, its iron armour drenched in the gore of the swordsman. Vorst threw himself at the greenskin leader, his cutlass point driving towards its face. The warlord batted the blow aside with its left arm, the blade scoring through the exposed flesh to leave a deep wound, but the orc was heedless of pain. In a single stroke of its double-headed axe, it cleaved Vorst from the shoulder to his abdomen in a spray of blood and splintered bone.

Ursula shrieked and fell to her knees, her sword tumbling from her numb fingers, as her whole body was swept with horror. Bile rose in her throat, and she choked as the shadow of the warlord fell over her. The axe swept down towards her and she froze.

Someone stepped in front of her and she saw something go spinning past her left ear spilling blood. Cursing and spitting, his hammer in his right hand, Ruprecht swung a back-handed blow into the warlord’s face, smashing it clean in the jaw and sending it stumbling backwards.

The wildfather grabbed Ursula beneath the arms and dragged her clear, as Louda launched himself at the orc warlord, leaping nimbly up his arm and sinking his claws and fangs into the orc’s mangled face. Ursula pulled herself free from Gerhardt’s grip and lunged forward, snatching her sword from beneath the warlord before scrambling clear over the trampled mud and grass.

As she sat there panting, another rumbling and a glint of reflected sunshine to Ursula’s left attracted her attention.

The freelances drove into the side of the orcs like a dagger, the hooves of their warhorses flailing, lance points punching through armour and flesh with deadly ease. Johannes led the charge, one bandaged arm in a sling, his lance in the other. With a crash like thunder the heavily armoured knights smashed through the nearest orcs, hurling them to the ground with the force of their charge. From behind came a triumphant shout as the Red Spears charged in as well, and it was only then that Ursula realised that the other orcs had joined the boar riders and surrounded them.

It seemed as if they had been fighting for an eternity but in truth it must have been less than a minute of desperate combat. As quickly as it had begun, the battle ended, the orcs fleeing from the counter-attack, the warlord stumbling away, snatching Louda from his face and crushing the weasel under his foot. The freelances continued after them, cutting down a few more and speeding their flight. The few remaining wolf riders had broken off from their fight with the Black Company and appeared to the east, threatening the knights’ flank, forcing them to break off their pursuit.

Bloodied and wearied, the battered defenders watched the orcs disappear back over the hill, the freelances shadowing them at a safe distance. Gerhardt was gently cradling the still form of Louda in his arms, on his knees in the mud and the blood, rocking from side to side as if he were soothing a child. Ursula looked up at Ruprecht, who was standing just in front of her, hammer still held ready, his left arm hanging at his side, blood dripping from where the orc warlord’s axe had sheared his hand off.

‘You’re hurt,’ she said, realising as she spoke that it was a pointless thing to say.

Dazed, Ruprecht glanced over his shoulder at her and then followed her gaze to the bloodied stump of his wrist. He looked at the blood pouring from his ravaged arm and then back at Ursula, his face expressionless.

‘Damn,’ he said, a moment before fainting.

CHAPTER EIGHT

RAIDERS

Reikland, Summer 1711

Thirty-two men had died fighting the orcs, and six more succumbed to their injuries in the four days that had passed since. The orcs had scattered after their defeat, but the freelances continued patrolling and early the previous day had reported that they had gathered again, and had been reinforced by another tribe, swelling their numbers to over two hundred. Lady Halste had urged the convoy to move on with all haste, yet their progress up the stony tracks of the Grey Mountains was slow.

Three of the carts had been turned into transport for the wounded, Ruprecht amongst them. For two days he had been stricken by a fever, but it had broken quickly, and Ursula was sure that her friend would live. The axeman, Keiner Soval, had heated the blade of one of his weapons and used it to cauterise the wound, Ruprecht’s mad screams of pain digging into Ursula like knives as he did so. She had tended to the Talabheimer each day, changing the bandages on his stump and feeding him the broth provided by the caravan’s cooks to keep his strength.

The big man was weak though, his skin pale, his eyes ringed with fatigue, and Ursula rode on the wagon beside him, most of the time watching over him as he slept, other times talking gently to him when he was awake. Gerhardt had told her to get some sleep on the second night and had promised to watch over Ruprecht while she did so. She had refused at first, but eventually her tiredness had overcome her and Soval had carried her sleeping form back to the lady’s housewagon at the wildfather’s request.

The priest of Taal had disappeared into the wilds on the first day with Louda’s remains, and the others assumed that he intended to bury his familiar. However, at nightfall he had returned, the weasel bounding along at his side as if nothing had ever happened. The people of the expedition had muttered to themselves, in awe of the wildfather. They steered clear of the weasel, though, as it rummaged around the encampment looking for scraps to scavenge.

Ursula was riding on the wagon with Ruprecht as the road wound its way under an arch of black rock, far above the forests of the Empire. Ahead and to the left and right, the high peaks of the Grey Mountains stretched up into the cloudy sky, their snowy tips disappearing from view. Small clusters of coniferous trees clung to the thin earth on the mountainsides, and game trails criss-crossed the wide track they were following. The ground was bare rock in many places, broken only by piles of boulders and small, twisted bushes. The tinkle of shallow streams winding their way down through the rock accompanied the screech of birds of prey as they soared overhead looking for food.

‘How much further do you think we have to go?’ Ursula said as she tightened the knot on Ruprecht’s bandage.

‘Two or three more days perhaps,’ Ruprecht said with a wince. ‘I’ve never travelled these lands, but Johannes has and he thinks that Karak Norn lies perhaps thirty more miles to the west.’

‘When do you think the orcs will attack again?’ Ursula said, glancing over her shoulder at the rest of the convoy as the horses and mules trudged up the steep slope.

‘Perhaps they have headed back to easier pickings,’ Ruprecht grunted.

‘No, they haven’t,’ Ursula told him. Ruprecht gave her a questioning look and she pointed to the south. The burly man sat up with a groan and followed her gesture. Perhaps a half-mile away, shadowy shapes could be seen slinking between the rocks and bushes.

‘Wolf-riding scouts,’ Ursula confirmed. ‘They may even be ahead of us now, waiting in ambush.’

‘We can’t resist another attack, not here,’ Ruprecht said quietly, slipping back down against the side of the wagon.

Ursula didn’t reply. Everyone in the convoy knew they would be doomed if the orcs attacked while they were strung out on the steep, narrow road, though few had bothered to voice their fears. Some of the mercenaries had threatened to leave until Leonard had pointed out that the orcs would pounce upon any stragglers or soldiers who left the fragile safety of the expedition. They would earn their money or die, he had told them. This hadn’t stopped a few of the bowmen and some of the handgunners from slipping away in the night, deciding to take their chances with speed and stealth rather than numbers. Wolf riders had left their bodies a few miles ahead for the rest of them to find the next day.

‘Well, we can be proud they haven’t attacked yet,’ said one of the other wounded soldiers, in the garb of the Black Company, who was lying against the back of the wagon, smoking a thin clay pipe. His left leg was heavily bandaged, blood seeping from the cloth onto the floor of the wagon.

‘How so?’ asked Ursula.

‘We gave them enough of a fight last time that they’re having to think hard about attacking again,’ he explained, shifting himself into a more comfortable position. ‘I killed five goblins last time. If they come again I’ll kill five more, you can be sure of that.’

Ursula smiled, but inside the soldier’s bravado rang hollow. She was not looking for a glorious death, she just wanted to reach Karak Norn.

The orcs attacked the next day, as they passed a crossroads and entered a narrow defile.

They had a new leader, the head of the previous warlord stuck on its back banner along with the rotting remains of several more. This orc was more wary, and stood at the exit of the canyon with thirty or so greenskins armed with crude bows. The other orcs, and several score of goblins, were scrambling over the rocks behind the wagons, closing the trap.

The wagon train closed up and the bowmen and handgunners moved to the fore, exchanging shots with the orcs. The Black Company and Red Spears took up position to receive the orc attack at the rear. Ursula glanced up nervously at the walls of the canyon, but it seemed as if the orcs had been unable to scale the heights, from which they might have rolled boulders onto the defenders below. She jumped down from the wagon of wounded and drew her sword. Ruprecht and most of the others clumsily followed, some with bandaged chests, arms in slings or hobbling forward on crutches. Ursula leaned over the side, grabbed Ruprecht’s hammer from where it lay, and passed him the weapon.

‘I thought you were going to argue,’ he said, grabbing the handle in his right hand and hefting the hammer onto his shoulder.

‘Would it have made a difference?’ Ursula asked.

Ruprecht shrugged.

‘It would have shown you cared,’ he said with a mock sorrowful look.

‘Tough luck, bear,’ she said with a grin. ‘You’re being paid to fight.’

They looked at each other for a long moment and then turned and walked down the line of wagons. Ursula felt strangely calm. I’m probably going to die here, she thought, so why aren’t I scared?

‘Nice of you to join our little social gathering,’ said Soval, his axes ready, as they joined the front of the line at the entrance to the defile. Ursula was about to reply but stopped as the atmosphere suddenly struck her. The mood of the soldiers was surprisingly jovial, as they stood and watched the greenskins closing in. A few pointed at the approaching warriors, making wagers with each other on which enemies they would kill, while others were shouting insults and making rude gestures towards the orcs and goblins.

‘Remember me, you cowards?’ bawled Swinefever, his demi-pike held high in one hand. ‘Any of you fancy a tickle from my spear?’

He planted the weapon in the ground, pulled free the laces of his greasy breeches and let them drop to the ground, his company laughing at the unsubtle innuendo.

‘Neither did the girls in Marienburg!’ he said, turning to the others as he pulled his breeches up again. He saw Ursula and, with a lopsided grin, gave an apologetic shrug.

‘Now I know why it’s called a half-pike,’ she called out to him, and received a laughing cheer as reward.

Ruprecht looked at her, one eyebrow raised.

‘Sorry, have I just shattered some of your illusions?’ she said, putting on her sweetest smile. The Talabheimer gave a despairing look and turned back to face the approaching greenskins.

Ursula pulled her sword free and held it lightly by her side. Was this how it was at Blackfire Pass, she wondered? When the tribes of men had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the dwarfs, and the great tide of orcs and goblins had swept towards them, had Sigmar joked to his comrades? What had the first Emperor thought as he watched that endless mass of evil descend on his fellow men? Had he known they would be victorious, or had he simply thrown his fate to the gods?

‘Taal certainly works in strange ways,’ Gerhardt muttered as he stepped up beside Ursula.

‘To send you Louda as a guide, and then bring you all this way to your death?’ she said, glancing at the wildfather then turning her attention back to the foe. The orcs and goblins were gathering around their banners, forming a battleline some two hundred yards away. The priest looked up into the sky and smiled. Ursula followed his gaze and saw an eagle soaring above the canyon, swooping in long figures-of-eight.

‘What does Taal tell you?’ she asked.

‘That there are mountain goats with kids up the valley,’ he said, ‘and that the eagle is hungry.’

It seemed to take an eternity for the orc attack to begin, as the caravan guards stood waiting in the canyon mouth. As the time dragged on, heartbeat by slow heartbeat, the jokes stopped, the murmuring subsided and an edgy quiet descended on the valley. The orcs made no noise either as they gathered, and the silence was only broken by the clanking of the enemies’ weapons and the scuff of small rocks underfoot. The occasional report of handguns, and the whine of orc arrows echoed along the defile. The eagle still circled above, and its screeching cry resounded off the canyon walls.

‘What are they waiting for?’ Ruprecht muttered, hand tightening and relaxing on his hammer haft. The greenskins were standing only a couple of hundred paces further down the hill, glowering up at the defenders with their vicious red eyes.

The ground reverberated with a heavy thud.

Looking around, Ursula could not find the source of the noise, and many of the others were glancing left and right, exchanging unsettled whispers.

The ground trembled again, shaking loose pebbles and causing scree to scatter down the defile’s walls.

‘What devilry is this?’ Ursula said, casting a worried look at Ruprecht and Soval.

Soval shook his head and Ruprecht gave a non-committal shrug.

Again, the ground shuddered and the noise grew louder. Then, above a rise a few hundred yards down the mountainside, the top of a gigantic head appeared, a massive face with blunt features and unintelligent eyes. As the giant came forward, his shoulders and chest came into view. His bald head shone in the mountain sunshine, and sweat glistened over his body, which was tattooed with heavy blue and red swirls.

The ground shook as the giant approached, until he was in full sight, towering ten times the height of the orcs he accompanied. He was naked except for a loincloth crudely cut from the hide of a bull, its skull still attached, and in his monstrous right fist the giant clasped a club hewn from a tree, a boulder inexpertly wedged into its splitting branches and tied in place with thick rope. Goblins scattered as the giant approached, dodging out from under his huge feet as rocks were pulverised under his tread.

‘Mother of Sigmar…’ said Soval, his arms dropping limply to his sides, axes slipping from his fingers.

‘Don’t blaspheme!’ snapped Ursula, sheathing her sword. She grabbed the dog of war’s axes and thrust them into his hands. He took them, blinked at Ursula and then nodded to show that he was alright.

There were panicked mutterings from the other mercenaries, but this was soon swallowed up by a wall of sound as the orcs and goblins began chanting loudly, urging on their giant ally.

‘Gurt! Gurt! Gurt! Gurt!’ they bellowed, and on hearing his name the giant’s stupid features split into a broad grin, revealing cracked, uneven teeth like paving slabs. The giant slowly looked left and right at his diminutive allies and raised a hand in welcome, the shadow passing over the orc army.

‘We can’t fight that!’ one of the Red Spears called out, his weapon clattering to the ground as he turned to run. Swinefever pounced on him with speed unbelievable for his bulk, smashing a fist into the man’s jaw and then dragging him upright. With his leader’s clenched fist raised for another blow, the soldier flinched, grabbed his weapon from the dusty ground and retook his place in the line.

‘Gurt! Gurt! Gurt! Gurt!’ roared the deep bellows of the orcs and the high-pitched voices of the goblins.

A sharp crack echoed off the walls and a puff of smoke wisped into the air as one of the marksmen turned from the fight with the orc archers at the far end of the convoy and targeted the giant. The bullet whistled overhead and smacked into the giant’s leg. The giant gave a surprised grunt and looked at the humans waiting nervously in the canyon. He looked down stupidly at the thin trail of blood trickling down his thigh from the pinprick wound and then back up again.

The giant’s shout was deafening as it bounced off the canyon walls, shaking the wagons and causing rocks to cascade down to the valley floor. Ursula clamped her hands to the ears, dizzied by the volume of the roar.

‘Gurt hurt!’ the giant yelled, raising his club into the air. The monster broke into a lumbering run, his foot squashing a wolf rider who had been caught unawares by the sudden charge.

Covering a dozen yards with every stride, the giant lumbered up the mountainside, his broad mouth twisted in anger, a deep scowl creasing his heavy set brow. The horses were whinnying in terror behind Ursula, straining at their traces, the mules braying and kicking to be freed from their tethers. The orcs and goblins swarmed forward in the giant’s wake, their hoarse cheers accompanied by the clattering of their weapons, rapid drumbeats and brash horn blasts.

‘Hold the line!’ roared Leonard, striding forward, zweihander held aloft. ‘Hold and we can win!’

Ursula felt a large presence next to her and she glanced right to see Ruprecht standing close by, warhammer head resting at his feet. He looked calmly up at the onrushing giant, shielding the sun from his eyes with the bandaged and bloodied stump of his left arm.

‘Aren’t you afraid?’ she asked in amazement, her own voice trembling.

‘Bloody terrified,’ Ruprecht said between gritted teeth, not looking round.

A short laugh burst from Ursula’s mouth, edged with mania.

‘Don’t worry, I’ve survived uglier things than this,’ Ruprecht said. Ursula couldn’t see his eyes and so had no way of telling if he was being truthful or not.

The giant was just fifty yards away now. A crackling volley of pistol fire from the Black Company engulfed the monstrous creature, his skin erupting in a welter of small bloody explosions as bullets tore through his leathery skin. Moaning in pain, the giant’s advance slowed for a moment, and then resumed.

‘Red Spear forward!’ ordered Swinefever, leading his company half a dozen paces ahead of the Black Company. ‘Prepare to receive the charge!’

Another giggle erupted from Ursula, as the horrendous understatement of the command struck her.

‘Don’t lose it now, girl,’ said Ruprecht, turning to face her, his eyes angry. ‘You’re better than that.’

The approaching giant’s shadow fell over the assembled soldiers, and a chill enveloped them. Ursula shivered. I really am going to die here, she thought, drawing her sword again. It was ludicrously thin compared to the sun-blocking bulk of the giant.

The fury of the giant fell on the Red Spears as it barrelled into them, swinging its club in a wide arc. Many ducked the blow, their spears snapped in two or wrenched from their grasps, but three of them were plucked from the ground and hurled through the air, the bloody pulp of their remains splashing onto the rocks just in front of Ursula.

Those who still could, struck back with their demi-pikes, lancing the steel tips into the flesh of the giant, more hafts snapping as they encountered the creature’s tough hide, a few biting into the thick muscle and fat beneath. The giant ignored their blows and raised his club over his head again.

The Black Company charged forward, heedless of the orcs that were closing in, their greatswords flashing towards the giant. Bellowing in pain from its wounds, the giant raised its foot up, and then brought it down on the swordsmen, shattering blades and crushing bodies. A childish yet deafening laugh gurgled from the giant’s throat as he raised his foot and stamped on the Black Company again, reducing another handful of men to a ragged mess on the cracked stone floor of the valley.

As the giant’s foot lifted into the air for a third time, the Red Spears drove forwards, punching their demi-pikes into the sole of the giant’s bare foot. The laughing turned to a confused mewing as the giant raised his foot higher to avoid the blows.

With a startled grunt, the giant began to topple backwards, tree trunk club falling from his thick fingers and crushing two of the spearmen as he waved his arms in a vain attempt to stay balanced. The goblins that had followed the giant up the hill faltered in their charge and then turned to flee as his massive bulk came crashing down towards them. Over a dozen of them were not fast enough, disappearing beneath the immense body of the giant, their panicked screeches cut short.

Seizing the moment, the Black Company stormed forwards, hacking at the giant as he flailed on the ground, his random twistings sending men flying through the air, his waggling legs kicking corpses over the heads of the soldiers.

A tremendous moan shook the valley and the giant raised himself on one arm, using his free hand to swat at the swordsmen, whose long blades were punching through the softer skin of his distended belly into the vitals within. Blood sprayed yards into the air from a severed artery as one of the zweihanders bit through the inside of the giant’s thigh, drenching the combatants in a crimson shower. His blood spilling from the fatal wound, the giant flopped back to the ground with an impact that caused men and orcs to lose their footing.

A collective groan of despair rose up from the orcs and goblins, their charge slowing as their gigantic ally flung an arm into the air, a rasping death rattle echoing over the sounds of men shouting, and the chop of greatswords through leathery skin.

The giant despatched, the blood soaked mercenaries pulled back and redressed their line to face the orcs, who had paused in disbelief. There was no victory shout, the defenders knew full well that their advantage would be short-lived. Over a quarter of them had been slain by the giant’s brutal attacks and many others seriously wounded, and the horde of greenskins filled the valley mouth, goading each other into the final charge.

For several moments, the two forces eyed each other around the body of the giant, whose blood was pouring in great rivulets back down the mountainside through the orc line. Then a group of orcs at the centre, even burlier than the others, raised their weapons, every one of them carrying an axe or a cleaver in each hand. Their bestial snarling and shouts were accompanied by the clashing of iron as they stormed forwards. A moment later the other greenskins followed, bolstered by the courage of their strongest fighters.

A boom resounded from back along the wagon line and something screamed overhead. A black blur raced into the orc line, decapitating and dismembering in a trail of gore, bouncing from the rocks and scything through another half dozen greenskins. Ursula turned in surprise and saw a cloud of smoke rising from the north valley wall. A moment later another detonation sounded out and a second projectile ploughed through the goblins, tossing aside their mangled corpses.

A grinding noise made the canyon walls shudder, and Ursula saw a vertical line of shadow appearing halfway along the north wall, twenty feet in length. As she watched, the rock face opened outwards like a massive door, dust and rubble tumbling down the steep slopes.

A clear, deep horn blast sounded from within the opening, and the tramp of iron-shod boots crashed out of the rock. From around the great stone gate appeared a column of dwarfs, their mail shirts shining in the sun, axes raised in challenge, fulsome beards bristling from beneath horned helmets. Rank after rank neatly wheeled from the concealed gateway, banners of gold and green, decorated with angular runes, mark the progress of each regiment.

The charge of the orcs was brought to halt as the leaders saw the host emerging from nowhere, and terrified goblin voices shrieked out warnings as another horn blow signalled the arrival of yet more dwarfs from the far end of the valley.

The dwarf leader marched at the front of this second contingent, resplendent in a suit of full armour etched with runes that glowed with their own energy, a gold-headed hammer in one hand. In the other he held aloft the orc warlord’s gruesome banner, the creature’s own head now added to the collection.

The two cannons fired again in unison, carving a bloody path through the greenskins. This was all the encouragement they required. The orcs and goblins turned and fled as the dwarf column marched onwards past the startled humans.

‘Well, bugger me…’ said Ruprecht, watching the grim-faced, bearded warriors troop past.

The dwarf leader led his retinue to where Ursula and the others were standing, some of the human soldiers grinning inanely, others dropping to the ground with exhalations of relief.

The thane, his head reaching only just above Ruprecht’s belt line, peeled away from his unit and strode towards the burly Talabheimer. His beard was black and streaked with silvery grey, twisted in an intricate plait that was tucked into his belt. He stood with legs wide apart in front of Ruprecht, and rested his hands on the hammer he planted handle-first in the dust. His bright eyes glowered up at the man from beneath bushy eyebrows.

‘Are you leader here?’ he said in a gruff voice, nodding towards the hammer that Ruprecht still leaned upon.

‘What?’ he said before gathering himself. ‘Ulric’s teeth, no! But I’ll welcome you all the same.’

‘Your welcome is not wanted, and I expect none in return,’ the dwarf said. ‘Point me to your leader so that I might have strong words with the disrespectful manling who brings orcs into the lands of Karak Norn.’

CHAPTER NINE

DWARFS

Grey Mountains, Summer 1711

Kurt and the other Fjaergard spent the time until sunset searching for food and water, but the land seemed bereft of either. They found not a single track upon the ground to show that there were animals nearby, and never once saw a bird crossing the sky. The only water they could find was from a brackish pool not far from the sea, which they drank from sparingly, fearing it was tainted. Even the water around the coast was devoid of fish.

As their campfire burned that night, smoke billowing across the foreign stars that dotted the clear skies, Kurt walked away from his adopted kinsmen, leaving them to their complaining. He was in two minds over what to do. They could stay and see what the city had to offer, but without fresh water and food, and no surety that they would find more soon, the deserted buildings might become their tombs. If they left in search of sustenance, they might never find their way back here, and the possible treasures hidden close by.

The murmuring of the Norsemen and the crackle of the fire was swept away by the dull lapping of the sea as Kurt wandered further from the camp. He was tired to the point of collapse, and could not imagine how exhausted the other, less gifted, warriors were. He would let them sleep tonight, would do so himself, and would make a decision in the morning. He would ask Bjordrin if he was confident of locating the strange city again, and if so they would venture further east looking for more fertile lands.

Kurt’s skin was raw from sunburn, and the hot breeze made his flesh prickle. Sand had worked its way into his boots as he had climbed over the dunes earlier, and it now nagged at him, gathering uncomfortably between his toes. This was truly a land forsaken by the gods. Their raw, powerful breath that had blown so fiercely in Fjaergard was just a distant whisper here. Perhaps that was why he felt so tired, he realised. The energy of the north that flowed through his veins had been leeched from him, robbing him of his gifted abilities, perhaps even making him a mere mortal again. It was not a pleasant thought, and though he still yearned to return in triumph rather than failure, he now doubted the wisdom of his bold adventure.

A movement amongst the dunes caught his attention, and there was a sudden gust of wind, spraying sand into the air. Something tickled at Kurt’s nerves, an unknown sense agitated by a change he could not quite define. Scanning the shoreline, he saw nothing for a moment, but then another surge of wind made something pale flap not far to his right. Staring across the moonless night, Kurt caught sight of a figure, standing still and silent atop the nearest dune.

Easing his sword free, Kurt took a couple of steps closer to the watcher, unsure whether his mind was playing tricks on him, or whether there was a man stood there. Approaching closer, he saw that his senses had not deceived him.

The man was short, the top of his bald head reaching no higher than Kurt’s chest. He was as thin as a skeleton, parchment-dry skin hanging off his bones in cracked folds. The stranger was dressed in a simple white linen robe, its hem embroidered with small faded pictograms. A great semi-circular collar rose up from the man’s shoulders and behind his head, looking like a setting sun, or perhaps a rising full moon. He leaned on a staff as tall as Kurt, its head fashioned in the shape of a hissing cobra. A priest of some kind, Kurt immediately thought.

‘Ahekh asan lami annu Nephythys qo?’ the man said, his voice as dry as a desert wind, when Kurt was only a few paces away.

‘I don’t understand,’ Kurt said. The man seemed to be no immediate threat, but Kurt kept his sword held up. He had long ago learned not to judge by appearances. The man stood in thought for a moment, his wrinkled brow creased deeper, before he spoke again.

‘Ifinnia tel athroth, Nephyhys athin anninir,’ the priest said. The words were halting elvish, and as the stranger spoke them, they rang in Kurt’s ears, burning his hearing. ‘Tel athroth Nephythys falan?’

‘Stop it! Stop talking!’ said Kurt, unthinkingly reverting to his native Reikspiel in his agony. He dropped his sword and clamped his hands over his ears to block the echoes reverberating in his mind. ‘No more!’

‘Ah, from tribes of the citiless you come,’ the priest said in a heavy accent, nodding to himself. Kurt released the sides of his head and stooped for his sword. ‘You not need weapon, I am no harm.’

Kurt picked up his sword all the same, and held it close across his chest. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, casting a glance back along the beach. He could see the glow of the campfire, and knew that it would only take a shout to alert the others.

‘I am named Amen-athep, high priest to great King Nephythys, Hawk of the Skies, Sorrow of the Foe, Wielder of the Golden Blade,’ the priest replied, the words coming by rote from his mouth, as if he knew the titles of his king in many languages.

‘I am…’ Kurt said, and then stopped. What was he going to tell this man? That he had come here to raid and pillage? ‘I am Kurt Sutenmjar, of the Fjaergard. My ships lie in the bay. We have no food or water.’

‘I know. I watched you. You come upon a bad shore for these things,’ Amen-athep told him. ‘Nehekhara is not a land of plentiful bounty it was.’

The name struck a chord in Kurt’s mind. Nehekhara, most ancient human civilisation of the world. But the legends claimed that Nehekhara had been destroyed, torn asunder by famine, plague and civil war. That would explain the deserted settlement – they were not in Araby at all, but in the lands of a realm that had died thousands of years ago. Though it did not explain how the priest came to be there.

‘Nehekhara, you say?’ Kurt said.

‘Nehekhara, yes,’ the priest said with an emphatic nod. ‘We do not know the Fjaergard.’

‘We come from the far north, where the deserts are made from ice,’ Kurt explained. Despite his warlike intent in coming here, Kurt realised that he might perhaps be able to gather supplies without bloodshed. His fighters were too weary for battle. ‘We have never come this far south before.’

‘What are ice?’ said Amen-athep. ‘What is desert of ice?’

Kurt thought for a moment. The idea of snow was as alien to the priest as the idea of a desert was to the Norsemen. He pointed northwards.

‘It is cold in the north, and water falls from the sky,’ he said. He clasped his cloak around him and pretended to shiver, and then mimicked snow falling from the sky by waving his fingers over his head.

‘Our history tell that when great Settra, the Hawk Eternal, Ruler of the Desert and the Winds and the Waves, stretched his hand across the world, his armies fight in lands where rivers fall from the sky,’ Amen-athep said, nodding slowly in understanding.

‘Can you help us?’ Kurt asked directly, sheathing his sword as a display of good faith, though he felt a fleeting pang of conscience at the falsehood. As a knight of the Osterknacht, he had been taught that honour and nobility overruled all other considerations. As a marauder of the Norse, he had learned that the world was a harsh place, and a man only gathered what he took for himself. He dismissed the momentary guilt.

‘I have prepared for your arrival,’ Amen-athep said, a toothless smile upon his face. He pointed back along the beach and into the dunes a little way. ‘Food and water, for tonight and for your journey, lies here.’

‘For our journey?’ Kurt asked cautiously. Amen-athep’s smile disappeared and his dead eyes bored into Kurt’s.

‘You will leave at daybreak,’ the priest said. ‘Do not enter the city. Do not take anything that is not left for you. Do not disturb the eternal rest of King Nephythys, Hawk of the Skies, Sorrow of the Foe, Wielder of the Golden Blade.’

‘Are you threatening us?’ said Kurt, hand straying back to the hilt of his weapon. ‘I do not trust a man who offers succour with one hand, yet conceals a blade with the other.’

‘No threat,’ Amen-athep said in his rasping voice. ‘Warning.’

‘A warning of what?’ Kurt asked, eyes narrowed.

‘You will leave at daybreak,’ the priest said. ‘Do not enter the city. Do not take anything that is not left for you. Do not disturb the eternal rest of King Nephythys, Hawk of the Skies, Sorrow of the Foe, Wielder of the Golden Blade.’

‘I do not take orders from the priests of dead gods!’ Kurt said.

‘Not order, warning,’ Amen-athep said. ‘You will leave at daybreak. Do not enter the city. Do not take…’

‘…anything that is not left for you,’ Kurt spoke along with the priest. ‘Do not disturb the eternal rest of King Nephythys, Hawk of the Skies, Sorrow of the Foe, Wielder of the Golden Blade. Yes, you said that twice already.’

‘Heed my warning: no man may enter the city,’ Amen-athep said. He clasped his staff in both hands and plunged it into the sand between his feet. A flurry of wind and sand enveloped the two of them, and when Kurt cleared his eyes, he saw that the priest was gone. He thought for a moment that he could see a small dust devil whirling across the dunes, against the wind, but then it was gone.

Kurt stood at the crest of the dune, contemplating Amen-athep’s words. His thoughts were interrupted by a shout from the direction of the camp. He turned and began to run down the beach. The glow of torches bobbed in the starlight and Kurt headed towards the nearest. The lights were gathering near the spot that Amen-athep had indicated and Kurt hurried forward.

Crossing a dune, Kurt saw that many of his warriors had gathered in a hollow not far from the beach. At the centre of the sandy bowl were set three long tables, covered with cloth of faded blue and woven with fraying golden thread. Platters of silver studded with opal and jade sat atop the tables, filled with all manner of food, and beside the plates sat golden ewers filled to the brim with deep red liquid. Beside each table was also a square chest of dark wood bound with bronze and studded with gold-headed rivets.

‘Do not touch it, it is cursed,’ warned Bjordrin, who was holding back the starving Norse a little way from the feast. He looked up and saw Kurt approaching. ‘Chosen One, this strange banquet has appeared from nowhere.’

‘Not from nowhere,’ argued Snarri Gold-tooth, pointing to the ground. Kurt could see tracks in the sand: thin, bony footprints and the mark of sandals. ‘These were brought here for us.’

‘It might be enchanted, or poisoned,’ argued Lina Half-wolf.

‘It is a gift,’ Kurt declared to them and they stopped their arguing and looked at him. He thought for a moment, deciding how to explain the strange meeting with the priest. ‘These are the dead lands of Nehekhara, and we will find no other sustenance here or for many miles. I will eat first, to ensure there is no trickery.’

‘No, Chosen One, I shall test the food,’ said Aelfir, striding to the nearest table and snatching up a handful of dried figs. ‘You are our leader and should not risk yourself for us.’

Kurt pounced forward, his hand closing around Aelfir’s wrist as he raised the figs to his mouth. He prised the warrior’s fingers open and took the fruit in his other hand.

‘I am gifted with a constitution greater than any mortal man,’ Kurt explained. ‘What might kill a man such as you will only cause me a fever. I am the Chosen, it is I who protect you, not you who protect me.’

He shoved the figs into his mouth and chewed slowly. They tasted syrupy, and as he ate Kurt realised just how dry his mouth was. He grasped the handle of one of the jugs and took a mouthful of the contents. It was wine, full-bodied and smooth. He stood there for a moment, savouring the taste.

‘The gift is true!’ he declared with a laugh, upending the ewer and pouring the wine down his throat in great gulps. ‘But do not eat too fast or you will be sick.’

The other Norse walked forward, gingerly picking at the stale hunks of unleavened bread and piles of dried fruit, passing around the wine jugs.

‘How did such a great banquet come to be here?’ asked Lina as she scooped a handful of withered nuts into her mouth. The others slowed their eating and looked at Kurt for an answer.

‘These are the lands of Nehekhara,’ Kurt told them as the rest of the crews ventured into the hollow, drawn by the shouts of their comrades. He was conscious that Amen-athep had claimed to have watched them earlier, and he chose his words carefully lest they be overheard by unseen spies. ‘Dead for a hundred generations, this land still has those who watch over the tombs of the ancient kings. It is a gift from these priests, to welcome us to their realm.’

‘Such wealth, I’ve never seen anything like it,’ said Aethwine as she picked up one of the empty platters and held it up to the light of the torches. It was made of iron, but patches of gold leaf could still be seen around the edges, which were embossed with images of warriors in chariots carrying long spears and bows. ‘The treasures of the kings of old must be great indeed if their guests dine with such finery!’

There were calls of assent and nodding heads, and Kurt remembered the priest’s words. He debated for a moment, wondering whether he should pass Amen-athep’s warning to the others, but dismissed the idea. Unwittingly, the priest had solved Kurt’s dilemma; they now had food and drink, and Kurt resolved that they would investigate the city tomorrow. A few priests, regardless of their petty tricks, would be little match for a Chosen of the gods and his warriors. He remained silent and waved the others to continue eating. There was no sense in warning Amen-athep and his brotherhood that tomorrow the Norse would take what treasures they could find, warning or no warning.

It was not long after daybreak when Kurt led his warriors to the ghost city, the sun still casting long shadows from the high wall and square towers. Despite the early hour, the sun was already hot and Kurt was sweating heavily inside his armour. His palms were greasy on the hilt of his sword and he stooped to rub sand between his fingers to firm his grip. They had found the remnants of an ancient roadway running parallel to the coast, scattered flagstones half-hidden beneath the sands, and had followed it to a small gatehouse facing eastward. The two gates were high and wide enough to allow perhaps four horsemen to ride through at the same time. A scene was picked out in tarnished gold, depicting a triumphant procession of a returning king, standing in a large chariot at the head of a column of horsemen and archers.

Kurt stood at the head of the party, examining the door. Jakob was next to him, his runestones clasped in his hand.

‘The stones are growing warm,’ the shaman warned quietly, glancing nervously over his shoulder towards the other Norse who were standing a few steps further back. ‘There is magic here.’

‘I feel it too,’ Kurt said, eyes not moving from the scene on the door. The king held a long spear above his head, and rays of light shone from its tip, still clearly picked out in a fine tracery of marble in the dark sandstone. ‘It does not feel like the breath of the gods, though. It’s deeper, slower. I can feel it rolling sluggishly around me.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Jakob with a shudder. His straggly beard had turned almost white in the sun, and he stroked at it with blistered fingers. ‘It is deep within the ground.’

Kurt stood a moment longer before reaching out a hand to push at the gate. It stayed firm against his hand.

‘Barred from the inside,’ he murmured, and looked up at the two squat towers flanking the gate arch. He turned and nodded to Lina, Aelfir and Snarri. ‘You three, up the left tower with the ropes. Aelfwine, with me up the right.’

The warriors unslung the grapple-ended ropes they had brought from the ships and swung them with practiced ease into the embrasures of the parapet above. Kurt sheathed his sword and drew two long daggers from his belt. Just as he had done at the Imperial fort, he plunged the knives into the stone, burying them halfway to the hilt with his inhuman muscles. He smiled with pleasure that his god-given strength had not deserted him. Pulling himself up on one hand, he pushed the other knife into a thin crack between the sandstone blocks and so ascended quickly up the tower wall. Aelfwine, axe strapped across her back, pulled herself quickly and surely up the rope beside him. With a last heaving effort, Kurt pulled himself over the parapet, landing catlike on the walkway beyond. Glancing across the gateway, he saw the others reaching the top of the other tower and gave them a wave before pointing down towards the roadway on the inside of the gate.

Lowering himself from the parapet with his fingers, Kurt dropped to the ground, knees bending to absorb the fall. In an instant, his sword was in his hand as he stood there ready, eyes scanning the deserted, dust-strewn street that ran directly away from the gate.

‘The gates are not barred,’ Aelfwine said from behind him, having descended more slowly on the rope, and he turned and looked. Sure enough, there was no metal or timber locking bar in sight. ‘Magic perhaps?’ she suggested nervously.

‘No, I would feel it,’ Kurt assured her. He saw a small doorway into the watchtowers, and ducked into the closest. The room was bare except for a thick layer of dust and ancient, rotten scraps of wood littering the floor. Leaving the guard room, he crossed over to the other tower, just as Lina, Aelfir and Snarri were descending. In this tower was a huge wheel of bronze, laying horizontally on a stone hub, connected by a half-rotted belt and a gear to a toothed bar that disappeared through a hole in the wall and into the gate itself. Sand was piled in the corners where it had been blown in from the outside.

‘Snarri, help me with this,’ he called outside, and the gold-toothed Norseman entered, blinking in the gloom. Kurt pointed to the spars that protruded from the wheel at right angles. Snarri nodded his understanding and grasped the spar as Kurt bent his back to another. They strained for a long while, the gear grinding against the belt, but to no avail.

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

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

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

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

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

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

At the centre of the city were four immense pyramids arranged around a wide square, stretching over five hundred feet into the sky. From the one closest to Kurt’s left, they ascended in size as if the next one in the square was trying to outdo its neighbour. At the centre of the square was a tall pillar, nearly as high as a longship’s mast, with a girth wider than a man’s shoulders. At the top of the pillar was a statue that glinted in the sun, carved from huge blocks of turquoise. Kurt recognised the king from the depiction on the gateway, though the statue held more detail. The king had an arched nose and a long, thin beard, banded with beaded strips, hung to his chest. He was clad in a breastplate shaped as rippling muscles, and a cloak draped from his shoulders and lay crumpled around his sandaled feet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TEN

WARNINGS

Arabian coast, Early summer 1711

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

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

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

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

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

‘Is this the King’s Hall?’ she had asked one of the dwarfs standing to either side of the opening they had been led through. The dwarf’s beard had bristled with indignation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

As the party walked across the huge chamber, the dwarfs on the steps retreated from the king and formed two lines either side of the processional road marked with green marble flagstones set into the rock of the floor. Not a word was uttered, and the hall echoed faintly with the tramp of the humans’ footfalls.

Flanked by the king’s advisors and other petitioners, Lady Halste stopped at the bottom of the steps and bowed. Ursula noticed Thane Grundab was amongst their number, having obviously taken another way to the throne room, and she smiled at him. The thane’s face expression was one of impassive dignity, which was then spoilt when he gave her a crafty wink. The king nodded and waved Lady Halste forwards, and she glanced to Ursula, Ruprecht and Johannes to follow her. The dwarfs had put them in the same chambers during their period of enforced idleness, and Lady Halste had started to treat them as an ad-hoc advisory council. So the four of them paced slowly up the fifty low steps towards the king. A cough and a meaningful glance from Queen Hadri stopped the group on the second from last step and they bowed again.

Standing up from his throne at the king’s right hand, his eldest son Prince Thudrin bowed to Lady Halste.

‘Welcome to the great halls of Karak Norn!’ his voice boomed out over the assembled crowd, who were all looking up at the dais. ‘King Hunkrik, though learned in many things, has requested that I speak for him, as the language of the people of Sigmar has been a passion of mine and I might better understand your needs and express the king’s valued judgement. He extends every hospitality under his command to the emissaries of our ancient allies, and would like to extend his condolences to you and your kin during the troubling times that currently befall you.’

‘Please extend my thanks to the noble King Hunkrik for welcoming us into his ancestral halls, and our gratitude for his understanding,’ Lady Halste replied, her voice slightly stilted by the formality of her speech.

‘The news you have brought from the lands of men is grave indeed, and the king would know what aid he might give those who have dared the dangerous perils of the accursed grobi to come to our doors,’ continued the prince. Ursula realised that he had not translated anything to the king, and that Hunkrik was more than capable of understanding Reikspiel. Perhaps it was against dwarfish custom for them to speak directly with the hold’s ruler, she mused, her thoughts drifting as Prince Thudrin and Lady Halste continued their long-winded exchange of diplomatic pleasantries. When this was complete, Thudri invited them up on the dais itself. The dwarfs clustered around the base of the steps began to slowly disperse, until only a few remained to listen to the proceedings, including Thane Grundab.

A nudge in the side from Ruprecht’s elbow caused Ursula to snap out of her thoughts and she listened more carefully to what was being said. ‘…and so when our forefathers fought shoulder-to-shoulder with your venerable kinsmen at Black Fire Pass, this heirloom was taken into custody for protection by your people,’ Lady Halste was explaining. ‘As true heir to Marbad who wielded Ulfshard in the protection of our people, the Count of Marienburg humbly requests that the blade be returned to him.’

The dwarfs did not reply, but stood there waiting for further explanation. The king raised one eyebrow and shifted his ruby-studded gromril crown from his brow.

‘In exchange for suitable recompense, of course,’ Lady Halste added. This brought a murmur of approval from the dwarfs, who glanced at each other, nodding and talking in khazalid.

‘Tell me more about Ulfshard,’ the king said suddenly, leaning forward. Startled, Lady Halste did not reply for a moment.

‘This magnificent blade was without equal in the Empire,’ she said eventually. ‘Only the runefangs gifted to the counts by your people are better forged.’

‘From whence did Ulfshard come?’ the king inquired, his face giving away no hint of his thoughts or mood.

‘It is said that Marbad was led to it in a dream sent to him by the gods, and he found it amongst the skeletons of an ancient battle that lay in the swamps north of his home,’ Halste was speaking slowly, recalling what history of the weapon that Khemen had been able to find.

‘And what appearance does it take?’ the king asked, his eyes never wavering from the lady’s face.

‘It is held in a single hand, its blade the length of a man’s arm,’ she told him, her eyes half-closed as she remembered the pieces of description that had not conflicted with each other. ‘Its pommel is a blue jewel that is said to burn with magical fire, and the hilt is wrapped in soft black leather. Its crosspiece is wrought in the likeness of two eagle wings spread wide around a blade shaped like the leaf of a grass.’

The king grunted and sat back, speaking quickly to the queen and Prince Thudrin. They conversed for several minutes, the queen nodding insistently as she spoke, Thudrin shaking his head vehemently. With a barking word, bringing his fist down on the arm of his throne, the king silenced the other two.

‘Ulfshard, we know of it,’ the king confirmed, and Lady Halste smiled and nodded. ‘You cannot have it,’ Hunkrik added.

Lady Halste’s smile remained fixed, but the warmth disappeared from her eyes. Ursula opened her mouth to say something but she shut it sharply as Ruprecht’s foot pressed forcefully down on her toes. She glanced up at him and he gave her a slight shake of the head.

‘If I might ask, why will you not hand Ulfshard back to the envoys of the Count of Marienburg?’ Halste asked, her voice cold. ‘Do you not recognise my lord’s claim?’

‘Count’s claim is true,’ conceded the king. ‘Our claim is greater. Ulfshard you call it, in our tongue it is gromdal zharrstok. This blade was forged by the thaga elgi!’ The king’s speech descended into angry muttering in dwarfish, interspersed with growls and spitting sounds. Thudrin stepped in front of his father, a scowl upon his face as he looked up at Lady Halste. The king still spluttered and ranted angrily to his wife, who was similarly animated.

‘Gromdal zharrstock is a weapon forged by the elves,’ the prince told them. ‘It is ours by right of recompense for the grievances done by the elgi during the War of Vengeance. Though created to fight the creatures of the dark gods, this blade sent many of our forefathers to meet their ancestors when the elgi invaded our lands. From that time on, it has been ours by right of grievance, and our claim predates your count’s by many centuries. It is held for the day the elgi admit their follies of the past and put right their treachery by paying due ransom for its return.’

‘Lady Halste will pay the ransom,’ Ursula blurted, earning herself a scowl from her mistress. The prince looked at her with a patronising, half-disbelieving expression, as if she had suggested that cutting off his head would cure a headache.

‘The ransom is for the elves, not for the men of Sigmar,’ Thudrin said.

‘Your people fought alongside Sigmar to forge the great Empire, which has remained your steadfast ally since that time,’ Ursula said, speaking quickly. ‘That Empire which your forefathers helped build is on the brink of ruin. Your ancient enemies, the orcs and goblins, despoil the lands you once helped us protect. With Ulfshard, the Empire might be united again, to drive out these raiders and despoilers.’

‘Ulfshard is not to be given away,’ Thudrin stated flatly. ‘Our ancestors would curse us from the halls of Grugni if we were to do such a thing.’

‘Our people die, famine reaps them like the scythe at harvest, the orcs pillage and kill where they want,’ Ursula’s plea became more passionate, a note of desperation in her voice. ‘It was the will of Sigmar, the great king, our protector, who led us here for Ulfshard. He sent me a sign that this sword would forge again his dream! Without Ulfshard, what hope do we have? The dwarfs, our greatest and oldest friends, keep to their fastnesses. The elves have never returned to these lands. We stand alone against the beasts and monsters that lurk in the wilds and the grim hordes that wait in the north. Those dire foes see our division, they sense our weakness. I fear that the time of Sigmar’s people is coming to an end. Please, you must deliver Ulfshard to us, without it we will all be doomed!’

Thudrin stood unmoving as he listened to Ursula and saw tears roll down her cheek.

‘Only stone is eternal,’ he said, no hint of sympathy or regret in his voice. ‘The king bids you to rest here for one week more, and then wishes you safe journey back to your homes. An escort will be provided to lead you to the lands of Sigmar’s people and keep you safe from the perils of the mountains. This is in recognition of our ancient friendship and the bravery of your people in confronting the grobi and urk menace, and for your slaying of the mighty gronti.’

The four of them stood there, speechless.

Lady Halste glared coldly at the king, who had lapsed into silence after his tirade and was contemplating the intricate ancestor god face wrought into his belt buckle. The audience was obviously at an end and the dwarfs would say no more.

Ruprecht placed an arm across Ursula’s shoulder to lead her away, but she shrugged it off angrily and stomped down the steps. Johannes reached out after her but she was too far away. The freelance glanced at Ruprecht as Lady Halste bowed to the king, more shallow than before, and then swept majestically down the steps, head held high, her long red dress trailing behind her. With a disconsolate shake of his head, Johannes hurried down the steps, calling Ursula’s name, leaving Ruprecht alone on the dais with the dwarfs.

A hand was laid on his arm and he turned to his right and looked down to see Grundab gesturing down the steps. His face, like that of all the other dwarfs, was expressionless as he escorted Ruprecht from the king’s presence.

Ursula was inconsolable for the next three days. Ruprecht knew that it was more than just their failure to reclaim Ulfshard. For Ursula, her pain was doubled. She loved the Empire as the realm of Sigmar, and she had been genuinely heartbroken to see the devastation that had been wrought by many decades of division. Though she had lived through these trying times, her life had always been one of isolation and wandering. In that time of loneliness Ursula believed that Sigmar had guided her to safety.

But that had led her to Kurt Leitzig. At first she had been happy. The two of them had fallen in love with each other. However, when the debacle with Marius van Diesl had descended upon Badenhof and she had fled with the knight, it had turned her world upside down.

Kurt had fallen under the sway of the Dark Gods of the north, and Ursula had felt betrayed. She blamed herself for Kurt’s weakness, and had countenanced doubts about her own faith. This had only fuelled her depression more, and when she had been given the chance to redeem herself, as she saw it, by reclaiming Ulfshard, it had filled her life with meaning again. The devastation at Wissenburg had strengthened her resolve and her purpose had become a burning desire within her. Now those hopes had been crushed, as the ashes of that desire choked her soul.

Worse still were the doubts that had returned to plague Ursula. Ruprecht had heard her muttering in her sleep, living nightmares in which she cursed Sigmar’s name and renounced her faith. When she awoke, she would remember her dark dreams and weep with self-loathing for her lack of loyalty to the founder of the Empire.

Her spirit was being literally torn in two.

Lady Halste had become more irascible and ill-tempered than ever. Her mood had lightened when they had reached Karak Norn and her goal was in sight. Now she fell into brooding silences, and few were brave enough to disturb her when she was in such frightful sulking fits. Even the dwarfs who brought them food and drink, normally oblivious to the flighty and somewhat unwelcome emotions of their human guests, started giving her a wide berth.

And then there was Johannes. The freelance was obviously quite smitten with Ursula. On occasion Ruprecht would find the knight watching her sleep through the door of her chamber, and Johannes would smile guiltily and walk away. When Ursula was awake, the cavalryman tried all that he could to console her, but she had become introverted and trusted no one. Not knowing the true source of her grief like Ruprecht, Johannes was reduced to meaningless platitudes and general reassurances that made Ursula angry. She threw his pointless words back at him, or fell into long silences. Johannes never argued and would take her scorn without flinching, but Ruprecht recognised the sadness in the knight’s eyes whenever Ursula banished him from her presence.

Two days before they were due to leave, the dwarfs returned their possessions so that they might make their preparations and get under way without delay. It was obvious that King Hunkrik’s welcome was wearing thin, and the dwarfs, while initially happy about their visitors, now wanted the whole matter forgotten and to be left in peace, barring the worries of the outside world beyond the massive gates again.

Ursula had recovered herself somewhat, though she was still prone to long lapses of depression and her sobs could be heard as Ruprecht lay awake at night. He was looking forward to leaving. Although he had been as amazed as all the others by the splendours of Karak Norn and had enjoyed the weeks of rest, he had been born in the wild fields of Talabecland and missed the sky and the sun.

The stump of his arm ached constantly, but had healed well under the watchful eye of the dwarf apothecary who attended him every day – apparently a nephew of the king and held in high regard throughout the hold. The dwarf was as quiet and taciturn as the rest of his race, but on occasion Ruprecht had managed to engage him in short conversation. The dwarf had asked him what he planned to do, and Ruprecht had no answer. A soldier with one arm was not much of a soldier at all, he confessed. Perhaps he would go back to being a riverman, he had suggested. The dwarf had been unhappy at this. He admitted that he had heard the tale of how Ruprecht had lost his hand, fighting against the orc warlord, and that it was a shame that such a brave warrior be treated like a cripple. Ruprecht had shrugged and been fatalistic about the whole affair. It was not his character to second-guess the gods, he explained, but merely to deal with what their machinations gifted or cursed him with. The dwarf had smiled, a rare sight for Ruprecht, and approved of this steadfast attitude.

That night in the great entrance chamber just next to the gates, as Ruprecht was checking over the baggage with the aid of a dwarf to translate his receipt, Lady Halste approached. Ursula was sitting on the board of one of the wagons, away with her own dark thoughts.

‘I have had an idea,’ Lady Halste told him, her voice quiet, her eyes conspiratorial.

‘Milady?’ replied Ruprecht. He had no stomach for the noblewoman’s love of politics and feared he would be drawn into some petty intrigue or scheme of revenge against the dwarfs who had snubbed her. The lady led him from the wagon, hooking an arm under his.

‘We cannot take Ulfshard, the king has made that plain,’ she said, and Ruprecht nodded in agreement. ‘But perhaps they would part with something less… well, less controversial, I would say.’

‘I don’t understand,’ admitted Ruprecht.

‘Though the true heirloom of the count is now beyond our reach, perhaps we can persuade the king to give us a gift of some other artefact,’ she told him. ‘Did not Sigmar himself wield Ghal Maraz, given to him by King Kurgan? Perhaps our master might be suited to wield a similar gift from the dwarfs?’

‘You mean to take some other sign of his right to the Imperial throne?’ said Ruprecht. ‘An artefact that shows he has the allegiance of the dwarfs, perhaps?’

‘Exactly, my darling,’ smiled Lady Halste. ‘But I fear my earlier reaction has offended the king.’

‘So what do you want me to do?’ Ruprecht asked bluntly. They had reached the door to the chamber, and Lady Halste turned them so that they were walking back to the cart, slowly pacing between the freshly laden wagons.

‘I believe that Ursula’s impassioned plea was not totally fruitless,’ Lady Halste told him. ‘I have spoken with Thane Grunbad, and he claims the king was quite moved to pity by her words, though of course dwarf custom dictates he cannot show such compassion.’

‘So you think Ursula should ask the king for this favour?’ growled Ruprecht. He could think of no solid reason why, but there was something about Lady Halste’s manner that set his suspicions running. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘You are her closest friend, Ruprecht my dear,’ explained Lady Halste, stopping them a short way from the cart where Ursula was still in contemplation, head bowed against her chest, her shaking fingers twisting her long red hair into knotted ringlets. ‘Only you can do this for me. She will listen to you, perhaps you can explain to her what I suggest.’

‘I would be reluctant to suggest it, milady,’ said Ruprecht. ‘She is already distraught. I would not give her hope again and then see it dashed. It could break her mind. I would spare her further misery and pain. She is too fragile, pick another ambassador for your scheme.’

‘If you do not ask her, then I will,’ the noblewoman said. Her expression softened. ‘It is better if it comes from you. You know her mind better than any of us. She is obviously a very special, gifted young woman, who dearly loves her people. Would you deny her a chance of achieving her dreams?’

Ruprecht knew that the lady was trying to manipulate him. Her words were cunningly chosen, even if she spoke them freely. Despite being aware of this, Lady Halste’s carefully woven speech was swaying his mind. Whether it was for the right reasons or not, it was true that it was not his decision to make, it was Ursula’s.

‘I will talk to her, but I cannot promise she will do what you ask,’ Ruprecht said finally. Lady Halste gave him a grateful, beautiful smile and slipped her arm from his. Without a further word, she turned and walked away.

Ruprecht walked over to the cart and pulled himself up onto the seat, laying a comforting hand on Ursula’s knee. She broke from her reverie and looked up, her eyes still distant for a moment, before focussing on his face.

‘There’s something I want to talk to you about,’ Ruprecht said.

The clank of heavy keys rang down the corridor as the dwarf warden unlocked the armoured door to the treasury. As he swung open the thick iron door, a golden glow spilled out from the chamber beyond. Lady Halste heard Thane Grundab sigh with pleasure at the sight, accompanied by Ursula and Ruprecht’s sharp intakes of breath.

The room beyond was filled with piles of chests, and on the walls hung helms, shields, axes and hammers, studded with gems, shining with polished gilding. The whole room glittered with precious metals and jewels in the light of dozens of flickering lanterns. An archway led off from the far side of the chamber, and Grundab led them through the first storeroom.

‘These are good for showing,’ said the Thane, waving a stubby hand at the suits of armour and weapons hung on the wall. ‘In truth, they are not best. Apprentice work mostly, no runes.’

He led them into the next room, which was filled with crowns, sceptres, statues, masks and other royal ornaments. Ursula laughed and pointed at a golden pickaxe.

‘That is the symbol of Grûgni carried by his priest Thurbin three hundred years ago,’ said Grundab. ‘If you want something from time of Sigmar, we must go further back.’

‘How far do they go?’ asked Ruprecht, gazing at the treasures that were laid out before them.

‘There are thirty rooms,’ said Grundab.

Lady Halste cursed inwardly. She had got the thane drunk with drugged ale three nights ago, and persuaded him to confide that Ulfshard was somewhere in the treasury. He had admitted that the dwarfs weren’t exactly sure where it was though. If the elves ever made recompense for it, the dwarfs would find it for them, he had said. It would take her an eternity to find what she was looking for amongst all the other treasure.

‘We go to the eleventh room,’ said Grundab, waving them onward.

As they passed through chamber after treasure-filled chamber, Lady Halste could feel the slow build up of magical energy. Hammers carved with runes, and suits of armour with sigils of protection etched into them gave off pulses of magic that made her skin shiver. The rune magic felt cold to her, not at all like the searing heat that came from a summoned djinn, or the dull warmth of one of her potions. Locked in the patterns of the runes, the magic was cut off from the world, no longer a part of the mystical flow that emanated from the north. She wrapped her heavy woollen travelling cloak tighter about her body, though it was purely to comfort herself rather than for any true protection against the unnatural chill she felt.

As they entered the tenth room, Halste felt something different. To their right a low doorway was cut into the wall, and a dark chamber lay beyond. She could feel a different magical breeze emanating from within.

‘What is in there?’ she said, laying a hand on the thane’s shoulder to stop him. He gave her a suspicious glance.

‘Elf-wrought,’ he said. ‘Nothing of value.’

Halste directed her best look of disinterest at the dwarf and carried on further. Ahead, Ruprecht and Ursula were discussing a shield hung next to the archway to the eleventh chamber, embossed with the now familiar face of Grimnir, warrior ancestor-god of the dwarfs.

‘In here,’ said Grundab, leading the way. Lady Halste hung back and stood just under the arch as Ursula hurried ahead.

She watched as the dwarf opened up one of the chests. Inside were piles of necklaces, crowns and bejewelled rings and armbands.

‘What do you think?’ the dwarf said, bending down and unpacking the royal treasures from the chest. He stood up, glanced with a frown around the room and then strode over to another chest and lifted the lid. It was filled with similar badges of office.

‘Perhaps this one?’ said Ursula. Plucking a golden necklace that was studded with rubies from the pile. Each stone was inscribed with a tiny rune that made them burn with inner fire.’

‘Perhaps not,’ said Grundab, snatching the necklace from Ursula and laying it reverentially to one side. ‘That belonged to Queen Hedriga. Very important.’

‘This one?’ said Ruprecht, lifting a ring between thumb and forefinger. The gold band was quite plain, and he was about to slip it on when Grundab lunged at him and snatched the ring from his hand.

‘No!’ said the Thane, tucking the ring into a hidden pocket. ‘Very dangerous. Hidden runes.’

Ursula sighed and cast her gaze around the room.

‘Well, what would you suggest?’ she said.

Realising that Ursula and Ruprecht were distracted by the search, Lady Halste stepped back through the archway. She hurried over to the plain doorway and ducked into the room beyond. Except for the small area of light from behind her, it was pitch black inside. Glancing back out of the door, she saw she was unobserved.

She exerted some of her power and her right hand began to glow, illuminating the chamber. It was low and narrow but stretched ahead at least fifty yards. Along the walls, in contrast to the neat and ordered chambers of dwarf work, elven artefacts were piled haphazardly. Elegant shields, long-shafted spears, leaf-shaped blades, tall crested battle helms, silver circlets and golden rings: all were cast upon the ground in disarray and obvious contempt.

With one last check outside, she heard Grundab still muttering and the creak of more chests being opened. Hurrying quickly between the lines of the elf hoard, Lady Halste held her arms out to either side, sensing the enchantments within the artefacts. She didn’t know what she was feeling for, but hoped she would know when she found it.

Lady Halste felt a rush of white heat from a spear to her left, and walked past. She ignored the dull pulsing of a helm to her right. She walked on through the unfolding miasma of energy surrounding her, until suddenly she felt a stabbing pain in her stomach. The light from her hand flickered and dimmed. Taking another step forward, nausea rose within her.

She heard a rattle from ahead and to her right, and she stepped towards it. She felt something lurch inside her, making her head spin for moment, but she pushed forward. As if breaking through a barrier, she took another step and the sickness passed, the magical light from her hand disappearing altogether. It was replaced by the white magical shine from the treasure. She saw a pulsing blue glow coming from a heap of swords and shields. As Lady Halste reached out a hand, the pile began to tremble. A shield slipped off the stack, and Halste darted forward to stop it banging on the floor. Leaving it to one side, she saw what had caused it to fall.

Grundab gave a triumphant grunt and lifted up a rough crown. It was quite plain: a broad circlet made of dull iron, with a single rune on a golden disc at its front.

‘Neat workmanship,’ said Grundab, handing the crown to Ursula. ‘Well, the rune. Crown forged by manlings.’

‘What is it?’ asked Ursula, turning the crown in her hands and examining it.

‘Crown of Marbad,’ said Grundab with a grin. ‘We found it at the same time as Ulfshard.’

Ursula and Ruprecht looked at the crown, a little underwhelmed. When King Hunkrik had agreed to listen to Ursula’s final plea, he had been moved by her passionate tale of Sigmar’s bond with the dwarfs, and her quest to restore that ancient alliance. She had been overjoyed when he had conceded to let them take something in lieu of Ulfshard.

In actuality, the crown was quite a disappointment. However, Ursula did her best not to let it show and smiled at Grundab and nodded her thanks. He gave her another of his crafty winks.

‘Try it,’ the dwarf said, pointing to Ruprecht.

Ursula handed Ruprecht the crown and he gingerly placed it on his head. The rune flickered with energy. Ruprecht looked different, definitely, but Ursula couldn’t quite say how.

‘What does it do?’ asked Ruprecht, his voice booming, echoing down the line of rooms. He glanced around and laughed, until Ursula had to place her hands over her ears against the noise. With an apologetic look, Ruprecht removed the crown and handed it back to Ursula.

‘Rune of leadership,’ said Thane Grundab. ‘Course, works better on a dwarf.’

‘This will be suitable,’ said Ursula with a thin smile. Grundab waved them back the way they had entered. Lady Halste was stood at the door, holding her cloak tightly with arms across her chest.

‘It is quite magnificent,’ she said, nodding towards the crown. ‘I am sure the count will look quite the embodiment of Marbad himself when he wears it.’

‘Are you cold, lady?’ said Ursula, hurrying to the noblewoman’s side. Lady Halste stepped back as Ursula reached a hand out to her.

‘I’m feeling a little chilly,’ said Lady Halste. ‘Perhaps the lack of sun and fresh air is affecting me adversely.’

The lady brushed past Ursula into the next room, the perfume from her hair hanging in Ursula’s nostrils and making her head spin for a moment. The others followed Lady Halste as she strode through the other chambers, sparing not even a glance for the wonders that were hung all around them.

As they entered the first chamber, Ursula began to feel dizzy. She coughed, and felt bile rise in her throat. Coughing again, she found it difficult to breath. Ruprecht turned to look at her, alarm on his face.

The crown flew from Ursula’s fingers as she spasmed and clutched her throat. She fell to the floor, her spine arching. Her throat and lungs felt as if they were burning and she thrashed about, rolling to her side and vomiting. Her hands were cold, and her tongue was swelling in her mouth.

Grundab hurried across the room, while Ruprecht knelt beside her, holding a hand to her chest.

‘She’s still breathing,’ said Ruprecht.

‘What is the matter?’ said Lady Halste. ‘We have to get her somewhere where she can lie down. Help me with her.’

She spun away and took off her cloak, then turned back and laid it on Ursula’s chest. With Ruprecht on the other side, they managed to lift her up and carry her from the chamber.

‘Take her directly to my housewagon, we will tend to her there,’ said Lady Halste with a look at Thane Grundab, who had picked up the crown and was checking for damage. ‘Lead the way.’

He looked up at her, startled.

‘Of course,’ he said, tucking the crown into his belt. ‘Follow me.’

By the time they had reached the hall where the travellers’ wagons were kept, Ursula had fallen into a deep, peaceful sleep.

‘Get the door,’ Lady Halste said, lifting Ursula away from Ruprecht with surprisingly strong arms. He reached up the steps, pushed open the door to the housewagon and stepped inside.

Lady Halste followed him and swept past to lay Ursula on the wide, soft bed. She looked over her shoulder at Ruprecht.

‘She needs rest,’ said Lady Halste. ‘I will call if I need any assistance.’

Ruprecht waited a moment, about to protest, until small creases of a frown appeared in Lady Halste’s forehead. He nodded and fled. Lady Halste picked up the bundle of her travelling cloak from the chest of the unconscious Ursula and stood.

‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Lady Halste, hugging the bundle close. ‘I could not have succeeded without you.’

The expedition was almost ready to leave, with everyone sitting on the driving boards of their wagons, their possessions returned and receipts checked. Ursula and Ruprecht were waiting behind Lady Halste’s housewagon. It seemed as if Lady Halste had been right. A few hours’ sleep and Ursula had woken refreshed and none the worse for wear. The noblewoman put it down to the recent stresses and cramped confinement and said that the dwarf halls were prone to the creation of ill vapours.

The previous evening, the dwarfs had held a great feast in their honour, and many casks of ale had been broken open and platters of food gorged. At the culmination of the banquet, the king had presented Lady Halste with the Crown of Marbad as a parting gift. There had been more long speeches, exchanges of pleasantries, and many toasts made with the quaffing of ale. Ursula had left when the group had become considerably drunk, and they were beginning the singing and competitions that the dwarfs described as ‘boisterous mirth’.

The tramp of feet and clatter of horses’ hooves filled the cavernous hall, making Ursula’s sore head ache even more, and the murmur of the soldiers accompanied it as a background drone. The peel of a horn blast split the air, drowning out all other noise, and the great gates of Karak Norn opened again. Sunshine spilled through as the thirty feet-high stone gates cranked outwards on hidden gears, causing men and dwarfs to all shield their eyes against the unaccustomed glare. Karak Norn had not seemed a dark place but, compared to the light of day, the thousands of torches and lanterns had been dim and dismal.

Thane Grundab held up his axe and marched forward, his dwarf warriors falling into step behind him with the crash of iron-shod boots on the stone floor. A second horn blow caused them to stop, and Ruprecht could see the thane looking back down the hall, shaking his head.

More dwarf warriors appeared, even more heavily armoured than caravan’s escort, and Prince Thudrin strode forwards at their head. Lady Halste appeared at the door to her housewagon, a pensive look on her face as the dwarf prince approached. Ruprecht could see that Thudrin was flanked by two dwarfs – on his right was the apothecary who had tended to Ruprecht’s wound, and on the left was a white-haired, ancient dwarf carrying the broad-headed staff of a runesmith.

The three of them stopped beside Lady Halste’s housewagon.

‘Yes?’ said Lady Halste, stepping quickly down from her housewagon to stand in front of the prince, her hands balled on her hips. She glanced back at the door to the housewagon and then at the thane and his armed escort. ‘What is it now?’

‘My regards, Lady Halste,’ said Thudrin. ‘I bear a gift from the king.’

‘Another gift?’ said Halste, with a step back and her endearing smile. ‘King Hunkrik is too kind. The crown of Marbad is reward enough for my endeavours.’

‘Not for you,’ said Thudrin, pushing past Lady Halste to approach Ursula and Ruprecht. He looked up at Ruprecht, his eyes glittering under his bushy eyebrows.

‘The king is grieved that such a fine warrior bears thoughts of not fighting again,’ said the prince. ‘A man who stood against an orc warlord is a brave man indeed, and would be missed much in the battles against the evils of the world. The king requested that venerable Runelord Kurbad create something wondrous to ease your burden and perhaps better enable you to continue to fight heroically in defence of your companions.’

The prince gestured to the runesmith, who stepped forward quickly, eyes darting between the prince and Ruprecht.

‘Hold this,’ he muttered, handing his runestaff to Thudrin and pulling a sack from his belt. He reached in and drew forth a shining steel gauntlet, long enough to fit Ruprecht’s hand and forearm.

‘It is very nice, but I’m afraid I can’t use it,’ said Ruprecht, bending forward to inspect the gauntlet.

‘Why not?’ asked Kurbad, turning the gauntlet over in his hands, a puzzled expression on his face.

‘It’s left-handed,’ said Ruprecht, raising his stump.

‘It’s… what?’ said Kurbad, before shaking his head. ‘Idiot manling!’

The runesmith stepped forward and, holding the gauntlet in his right hand, grabbed Ruprecht’s amputated arm with his left. He placed the end of the gauntlet over the stump and then pushed. Ruprecht hissed and snatched his arm away as he felt something pierce the tender flesh.

‘Ulric’s teeth!’ said Ruprecht, rubbing at his arm. ‘I ought to…’

He stopped as he noticed Lady Halste’s wide-eyed stare towards him and heard Ursula gasp.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, and followed Ursula’s gaze to the gauntlet. The fingers were balled into a fist, though Ruprecht would have sworn the gauntlet was open when the runesmith had fitted it to him.

‘The… the fingers moved,’ said Ursula, leaning slightly away from the gauntlet.

‘Yes, yes, rune magic,’ said Kurbad with an irritable shake of the head. ‘Small, intricate, not cheap. The king likes you very much, to pay for such a thing on your behalf.’

Ruprecht held the gauntlet in front of him and imagined opening his hand. The fingers of the gauntlet splayed open. He grinned. Then he laughed.

‘Be careful with it, you have no sense of touch and is strong enough to crush iron,’ said Kurbad, waving his finger in warning before turning away and retrieving his staff from the prince. Thudrin stepped forward to take his place.

‘The king sincerely hopes that his gift pleases you and that you will find it in your heart to continue your battles on the side of honour and righteousness,’ said the prince.

‘It’s magnificent,’ said Ruprecht, a tear appearing at the corner of his eye. He clenched and unclenched his artificial hand, and then proffered his right hand to Thudrin. The prince grasped it briefly but tightly and then stepped back. ‘I… I can’t thank you enough. It’s wonderful.’

The prince turned to Lady Halste.

‘The king requests that you send messages of forewarning if you wish the honour of visiting his hold again,’ said Thudrin, waving to Thane Grundab to start out once more. ‘May your gods watch over you and your ancestors guide you on the journey that lies ahead.’

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER ONE

AUDIENCE

Karak Norn, Late summer 1711

As two of his warriors struggled past with a chest laden with treasure, Kurt watched the procession of Norse making its way back towards the ships. They had brought sacks, chests and empty barrels from the ship, and many of them used their shields as platters to carry the gold and gems. It was barely mid-morning, and Kurt reckoned that they had already taken aboard enough riches to buy a small Empire town in its entirety.

He grinned to himself. If wealth could by fame, the saga of Kurt Sutenmjar would be remembered for many generations to come.

A shout from Bjordrin, who was leading the group emptying the buildings close to the square, drew his attention. There was a note of panic in the yell and Kurt broke into a run. He was a few dozen yards away when a scream from behind him caused him to skid to a stop and look over his shoulder.

At the junction he had just passed, Lina Half-wolf and Snarri Gold-tooth had been carry stacks of gold platters which were now scattered across the ground, glinting in the sun. Snarri had his axe in his hand, and Lina was screeching something Kurt could not understand. For a moment he could not see the cause of their alarm. Then a movement caught his eye.

The four statues at the corners of the junction were flexing their limbs, like old men awakening from an awkward sleeping position. A jackal-headed creature crusted in tarnished gold swung its scythe-like weapon around its head three times. It then crouched and lowered one leg from the plinth, then the other and advanced towards Lina. Its hawk-headed companion closed in on Snarri, a curved blade in each hand, while two crocodile-headed monstrosities turned up the road towards Kurt.

Each was twice as tall as the Chosen warrior, and their bronze weapons glinted cruelly in the desert sun. They advanced soundlessly, covering the ground with long strides, their movements somehow fluid yet jerky, moving effortlessly from one position to the next, and then pausing for a half-second before moving again. The stilted yet graceful advance transfixed Kurt and it was a few seconds before he realised the danger; he drew his sword and assumed a wide-legged stance in the middle of the street. One of the animated statues strode directly towards him, with its characteristic step-pause-step-pause gait. In its hands was a weapon the like of which Kurt had never seen before. It was an elegantly curved blade easily as long as a man is tall, but it had no hilt like a sword. Instead, the creature gripped a haft set along the back of the blade and swung the weapon in wide arcs during its erratic advance. A green glow emanated from the sockets of its crocodile skull head, an evil gaze that even Kurt could not meet without a shiver of fear.

The other was advancing directly along the street, ignoring Kurt altogether. Taking the initiative, Kurt leapt towards this one, his sword held over his shoulder for a back-handed sweep. The creature did not notice him at first and Kurt slashed at its neck with all of his might. The blade bit deep into metallic bone, sending splinters of gold showering into the air. The creature stumbled, its head lolling sickly to one side attached by twisted strands of metal. Liquid bronze spilled from the wound and hissed on the ground.

Kurt pulled his sword free and raised it to the attack again. A shadow of movement caused him to turn and the attack turned to a parry as the second statue swung its blade up towards his stomach in a low disembowelling arc. Steel rang on bronze, scoring a deep scratch along the Nehekharan guardian’s blade. Spinning on his heel, Kurt danced away from the attack of the wounded statue-beast, the eyes in its hanging head still burning with the same wytchfires. Kurt could feel magic prickling on his skin, and the same sense of dread that had struck him when they had first entered the city returned, more concentrated, almost paralysing him for a second.

Breaking free from his fear, Kurt hacked the leg off the already injured attacker, toppling it to the dust. It lay there, flailing erratically as it tried to right itself and crawl towards him. Ducking beneath the swishing blade of the other, he gripped his sword in both hands and rammed the point up into the space just under the creature’s gilded rip cage. The swordpoint burst through its chest in a fountain of unnatural metallic blood, spattering hot droplets across his face and arms. Biting back the pain, Kurt shouldered the beast on to its back, one end of its weapon cutting across Kurt’s left leg, biting through the armour and scoring a wound across his calf. With a yell, Kurt ripped his sword upwards, tearing through the creature’s chest, and, using the momentum of the blade, swung the sword around again, chopping cleanly through the statue’s spine.

Glancing up the road, he saw the corpse of Snarri lying on the ground in a pool of blood seeping into the rocky sand. His left leg from the knee down lay several yards away in its own crimson puddle. The hawk statue also lay in pieces across the street, its head at Lina’s feet as her sword parried the attacks of the remaining guardian. A powerful blow knocked her weapon aside and the creature struck with a back-handed attack, slashing the tip of its blade across her stomach. She stumbled to one knee, one hand clutching the wound, the other fending off the next blow.

It was then that Kurt saw how Lina had come by her name.

The creature raised its blade high above its head for the deathblow. At the same moment, Kurt sensed a ripple of energy exploding out of Lina. In the space of two heartbeats her sword dropped from her hands, which elongated into savage claws, and long hair erupted from her arms and back. Twisted muscle ripped through her leather jerkin and she launched herself forward, her steel-like nails tearing into the creature. With savage fury she ripped off an arm, bowling the creature backwards. Her claws punctured and lacerated the statue’s gold body, scattering chunks and slivers of metal across the sand.

Beyond her, more Norse were running back down the street, some of them encountering other groups of the animated guardians, others heading towards Kurt. Lina stood up over the still form of the statue and let out a piercing howl. She broke into a loping run, claws dripping hot bronze, and disappeared down a side street.

Another shout from Bjordrin called for Kurt, and he turned and ran towards the square. He found the chieftain’s brother and a group of ten others clustered around him. Pushing through them, he saw what was causing them so much alarm.

A gateway had opened up in the ground of the square, and a host of dead warriors were marching up the steps from below. They moved in perfect unison, the tramp of rotten sandals on sandstone steps mixed with the rattle of their scale armour. They carried long shields on their left arms and curved blades similar to the scimitars of the Arabians. Their armoured skirts hung to their knees, covering bone and withered flesh, and the same green light shone from empty sockets beneath their helmets. At their head, one of them carried a standard wrought from gold, inscribed with pictograms and faded symbols.

They advanced ten wide and six deep, moving with precision and co-ordination that made the most disciplined mortal soldiers look like clumsy children. The crunch of sand beneath their tread echoed from the giant pyramids.

The phalanx stopped about twenty paces from the terrified Norse, and the two groups of warriors stood facing each other. A few more Norse joined Kurt’s group, muttering curses and prayers to the gods as they caught sight of the unliving regiment arrayed in front of them.

‘We should leave now,’ suggested Bjordrin, taking a step backwards.

‘No!’ snarled Kurt. ‘We must give the others time to get our treasure aboard the ships.’

‘We have enough,’ argued Bjordrin, eyes wide with fear. ‘It is useless to us if we die!’

‘Coward!’ roared Kurt, striking Bjordrin across the chin with the back of his hand, sending him tumbling to the ground. ‘I will not skulk away like a whipped cur!’

Though it was weak here in the south, Kurt could still feel the tendrils of energy that poured from the lands of the gods in the far north. It was not like the invigorating rush he normally felt in battle, but it was strong enough. He opened himself up to its power, allowed the breath of the gods to flow into his bones, his muscles, his inner organs, fuelling them with unnatural strength and vitality.

With a wordless roar, Kurt charged forwards, sword held aloft.

For a moment the rest of the Norse stood and watched, and then broke into a charge as well, their own war cries drowning out the stamp of dead feet.

Kurt crashed into the front of the undead like a comet, his sword hacking left and right, smashing aside shields, tearing free skull-like heads and chopping through ancient bronze swords. A dozen of the walking corpses fell to his first assault. His blade erupted into flame that ignited tinder-dry rags and pitch-covered bones, turning the centre of the regiment into a raging conflagration.

As the tomb guardians closed around him, weapons biting into Kurt’s armour, Bjordrin arrived with the rest of the Norse, their axes, maces and swords hammering into the undead.

The unliving soldiers did not react to their casualties, striking back with millennia-old blades that hewed through flesh and bone as if newly-forged. Bjordrin was barely missed by a thrust towards his chest, turning aside the blow at the last moment, but he lost his footing. The others closed around him, those with shields raising them to protect their chieftain’s brother.

His initial impetus faltering, Kurt’s blows came slower as the magic leaked from his body. He felt a moment of desperation as his sword felt heavy in his hands for a heartbeat, a Nehekharan blade glancing off his cheekbone. Fighting back his momentary fear, he whirled his sword around his head in a wide circle, clearing an area around himself for a few precious seconds of respite.

Over half of the unliving warriors were strewn across the ground, decapitated or dismembered. Though their attack had slowed, and seven of their number lay dead or writhing in pain amongst the fallen enemy, the Norse held the upper hand.

Kurt swept his sword low, severing both legs of an enemy warrior at the knees, tumbling it into the dust. Raising his blade for another strike, he paused. His sixth sense detected a magical presence, an arcane energy that leeched up from the ground. The fiery eyes of the undead blazed more brightly for a moment and, to Kurt’s horror, those that had fallen began to stir. Torn limbs knitted themselves to severed joints, gaping wounds closed over seeping black blood. The warriors of Nephythys pulled themselves to their feet, clutching for discarded weapons, pulling battered shields from the sand.

‘Come on! Fight harder!’ bellowed Kurt, smashing his sword through a shield and chopping one skeletal warrior from shoulder to ribcage. It stood there for a few heartbeats, Kurt’s blade lodged in its torso, and then crumbled into dust.

Bjordrin, blood streaming from a cut to his forehead, fought through the mêlée to stand beside Kurt.

‘We cannot win against foes who do not die!’ rasped the Norseman.

‘We can win!’ Kurt barked back, blocking a sword with the crosspiece of his own weapon and spinning the blade from his enemy’s hands. He chopped the creature’s head off with a twist of his wrists and looked at Bjordrin. ‘We can!’

Bjordrin shook his head and pulled Kurt back a few steps. He pointed out past the scrum of Norse and undead towards the largest of the pyramids. From a dozen concealed gateways, a host of skeletons marched forth. Some were armed with spears, others with bows. From a wide portal at the centre of the pyramid’s nearest side, a company of dead warriors mounted on skeletal steeds cantered forth, their standards shining like miniature suns in the mid-morning light.

There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of warriors marching up from the depths beneath the ancient city. Kurt stared at them for a moment.

‘Fall back to the ships!’ he cried, waving his sword back down the boulevard towards the gate they had entered by. ‘Get to the ships, take what treasure you can!’

The Norse broke quickly, easily outpacing the animated dead, and Kurt ushered them on with shouts and slaps with the flat of his blade. As they ran down the boulevard, they stopped to pick up what loot they could, but this slowed their retreat. They were joined by other stragglers from different parts of the city, many of them wounded, others half-mad with terror.

Glancing down a sidestreet at one junction, Kurt saw dozens of horsemen riding parallel to them, trying to cut them off from the wall ahead.

‘Faster, move faster!’ he urged his men, breaking into a sprint. The Norse warriors needed no further encouragement, and the retreat quickly became a rout.

A little way along, three chests lay on the ground, their lids split open, gold coins spilt on to the ground. Kurt grabbed Bjordrin and two others, and pointed to the chests.

‘Leave them, they’ll slow us down,’ Bjordrin argued, but Kurt pushed the Norsemen towards the treasure. He sheathed his sword and hefted one of the chests to his shoulder. Checking that the others had picked up all the scattered coins, he then led them onwards.

They were now two or three hundred paces behind the main group, perhaps a quarter of a mile from the gate itself and half a mile from the beach. Kurt’s lungs burned with the effort of running and carrying the chest but he pressed on.

Kurt felt a flood of a relief as they passed through the shadow of the gate. He stopped and looked back down the boulevard. Not far behind them, the legion of Nephythys marched down the wide road. At their front, in macabre parody of the statue Kurt had seen, was the king himself riding in a chariot, his golden blade held forward. His robes were tattered and hung from shallow shoulders, his face a decayed mask of rotten flesh and exposed bone. He had no eyes, the sockets glimmering with unearthly light. A dozen light chariots flanked him, and a hundred horsemen followed close behind. Phalanx after phalanx of skeletal spearmen tramped forwards, their speartips waving as a synchronous mass. A volley of arrows soared into the air, but clattered down harmlessly on the buildings and roads, fifty yards short of their target.

‘By the gods, if I had an army like that…’ whispered Bjordrin.

‘Keep hold of that chest and we will,’ grinned Kurt. ‘Imagine it. All the Norse for fifty miles all sailing under the banner of the Fjaergard! We’ll come here and show this king what the men of the north are like. He may have been mighty once, but there is a new power now. A power even he can’t stand against.’

‘Let’s just make sure we get back, eh?’ suggested Bjordrin, setting off at a trot. Kurt and the others followed. Ahead of them, Kurt’s ship was already full and was pulling out into the bay with long strokes of its sweeps. Men were still hauling themselves and the treasure up ropes and planks to Jarlen’s ship. They were halfway across the dunes when the keen-eyed Bjordrin stumbled and gave a gasp.

To their right, another undead army was marching along the beach, easily a thousand strong. The Norse at the water’s edge panicked as light horsemen galloped forward, loosing arrows at the ship, a few plucked from the deck and falling into the water.

‘We’re cut off!’ yelped Bjordrin, pointing to another host that was closing in on their position from the left.

‘The headland!’ Kurt snapped, pointing up to the cliffs that flanked the bay. ‘Come on!’

They broke into a slow run, weighed down by the chests. Their pace slowed further as the slope steepened, and a small detachment of horse archers broke from the main column and headed after them. Their arrows whistled past, hissing like snakes and burying themselves in the sand. There was no cover, and soon Kurt was struck, the barbed tip of an arrow punching through his armour and burying itself in his left shoulder. Snarling in pain, he dropped the chest, which tumbled down the slope.

Kurt took a step after it, hand reaching to reclaim his treasure, but Bjordrin grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him back.

‘It’s worthless if you’re dead!’ Bjordrin warned. The other two Norsemen had already discarded their burdens and were racing up the slope, foundering through the sand as arrows fell around them. One of them gave a shriek and fell forward as a missile plunged into his back, piercing his spine. He lay there for a moment, dragging himself through the sand, and then fell flat.

The archers were close now, only a hundred yards away, and Kurt and Bjordrin dug into their last reserves of energy as they sprinted up the slope.

Just ahead of them, the sand seethed with a life of its own, causing the other Norseman to stumbled.

In a shower of sand and rocks, the ground erupted beneath him, and a nightmarish creature burst forth. Fashioned in the shape of gigantic scorpion, the back of its carapace higher than Kurt’s head, the strange construct lashed out with its barbed, gold-covered tail, its sting caving in the man’s face, tearing his head loose. Its insectoid body was carved from blocks of marble and it’s claws fashioned from bronze inlaid with jade, which snapped forwards, cutting through limbs in a gory explosion. Turning on legs built from the bones of dead desert creatures, the monstrous scorpion faced Kurt and Bjordrin, a skull set into its torso, eyes blazing with the same unholy light that animated the warriors behind them. Baleful light glowed from an opening in its back. Kurt drew his sword and ran forwards.

Bjordrin shouted a warning as the creature’s tail lashed forward, and Kurt dived under it, rolling under the blow and back to his feet. His sword blocked a slashing claw and he caught the other in his left hand. The muscles of the Chosen strained against the unnatural vigour of the construct, but the power of the gods flowed into him and, with a yell, he ripped the claw free.

His sword rattled harmlessly off the creature’s marble skin, and Bjordrin joined the fight, his blade hacking at the tail which darted towards him. Sparks erupted from Kurt’s blade as it clattered harmlessly off the creature’s stone body, shavings of steel spraying into the sand.

Bjordrin was thrown to his back by the creature’s remaining claw and it turned and raised a dagger-tipped leg to stamp on him. The blade punched through Bjordrin’s arm, pinning him to the ground.

Ignoring the agonised screams of his adopted kinsman, Kurt saw that the scorpion had left itself open. He leapt forwards on the creature’s back, fingers finding a hold in the eye sockets of the skull that was in place of its face.

He saw that the opening in its back was a little larger than a coffin. Within were the withered remains of a man dressed in similar robes to those Amen-athep had worn. It was from this corpse that the unearthly energy emanated, bathing the inside of the sarcophagus-cavity with green light. Kurt plunged his sword down into the opening, the blade passing through the chest of the withered body with a sound like tearing parchment.

The eyes of the mummified priest snapped open with horror and black sludge gurgled up from it’s throat. Green light spilled from the wound and the scorpion collapsed to the ground, its body parts separating as the magic binding it together dispersed into the air.

Bjordrin was trapped beneath the bulk of the scorpion’s thorax, his arm still pinned by the creature’s foot. Arrows screamed into the sand close by and Kurt turned to see the horsemen galloping closer. They lowered their bows and drew forth bronze-tipped spears for the final charge.

Kurt met them head on, his blade smashing through the neck of the closest steed, toppling the rider to the sand. Ducking beneath a spear point, he punched an armoured gauntlet up through the exposed ribcage of the next skeletal horse, ripping chunks from its spine.

A spear thrust towards his abdomen, but Kurt knocked it aside with his sword and grasped the shaft in his left hand, dragging the dead warrior to the ground. Stamping down on the creature, its skull shattered under his boot and the spear came free.

Kurt hurled the spear at the next, the weapon smashing through its chest and flinging it from its dead horse. The steed continued forward and barrelled into Kurt, its skull face biting at him with teeth sheathed in bronze, tearing flesh from Kurt’s raised left arm and knocking him backwards into the sand. A hoof struck him in the head and he was dazed for a moment.

The next rider thrust its spear down towards Kurt, but the Chosen rolled aside just in time, between the legs of the dead horse. He rose to his feet on the skeleton’s blind side and pulled it down from the saddle, his sword rammed up to the hilt under the creature’s jawbone. Grasping another spear, he glanced down the slope to see more riders heading his way. More than even he could fight off.

He raced back to Bjordrin, who was flailing ineffectually at the mass holding him down. Plunging the haft into the sand beneath Bjordrin, he used the spear as a lever to raise the carcass of the scorpion statue up, and hacked away the leg that pierced Bjordrin with his sword. Plunging his sword into the sand, Kurt pulled his friend free and then let the scorpion drop in a cloud of sand and dust. Bjordrin yanked the remains of the scorpion’s leg from his arm and Kurt retrieved his sword and they headed up to the cliff at a stumbling run. Reaching the edge, they turned and faced the undead following them.

‘What now?’ Bjordrin gasped between gritted teeth, glancing back over his shoulder at the hundred feet drop behind them.

‘Jump,’ snarled Kurt, turning his back on the skeletons and facing the sea.

‘There’ll be rocks beneath the waves, we’ll be smashed upon them,’ protested Bjordrin, looking over the edge at the foaming water below.

Kurt gave a growl and grabbed Bjordrin’s arm. Launching himself forward, he pulled the Norseman with him and they tumbled head over heel through the air. Kurt wrapped his arms around Bjordrin in a tight hug and strained every muscle to turn their plunge into a dive.

Hitting the water, it felt to Kurt as if he had hit the ground itself. Something in his right arm snapped just below the elbow and his neck twisted violently to one side. His breath exploded from his lungs at the impact and as they plunged below the surface, air bubbled up around the pair of them.

Beneath the waves, Kurt felt them sinking, dragged down by the weight of his armour. Pain burned through every part of his body but he managed to kick out, his powerful legs fighting the pull of the metal he wore until they broke the surface, gasping for breath. Bjordrin was stunned and floated on the water next to Kurt.

Bjordrin under one arm, his legs aching, Kurt pulled them through the water with long strokes towards his ship, which had unfurled its sail and was now heading towards them. The sea was quite calm, the air still, and for a moment Kurt felt a sense of peace after the maelstrom of fighting and fear that had chased them from the undead city.

Then screaming and shouting began to echo out across the water. Looking over his shoulder, Kurt saw something that made him stop dead in the water.

On the opposite cliff top stood a giant warrior, built from the bones of long-dead monsters, bound with bronze banding and clasped together with struts of deep red wood. It stood fifty feet tall to the top of its crested helmet, its spine made from melded animal skulls, its face oddly reminiscent of some colossal hunting cat. It wore a bronze breastplate studded with circles of turquoise and lapis lazuli, and long greaves upon its legs.

In its hands, it held a bow some twenty feet long, its string the sinew taken from some huge creature of the southern deserts. From a quiver across its back, the immense skeletal giant pulled forth an arrow as large a ship’s bow sprint, fletched with black feathers. Pulling back the arrow on the string, it turned towards Jarlen’s ship, which was still only a few hundred yards from the shore.

It loosed the arrow across the sea, the gigantic spear speeding through the air to crash into the side of the longship, hurling men into the sea, splintering the row of oars. Another arrow swiftly followed, tearing through the sail and ripping down the upper mast, which fell onto the deck, crushing even more Norse. The ship foundered as a third immense bolt tore through the planking just above the water line. The ship came to a stop and began to settle heavily in the water, weighed down by the gold and gems the Norse had taken aboard.

Slinging its bow over its shoulder, the bone giant began to climb down the cliff. It lowered itself into the water and turned and began to wade out, drawing a massive scimitar from a sheath hung at its waist. Some of Jarlen’s surviving crew threw themselves from the sinking ship as the creature approached, hoping to swim to safety.

Kurt could see Jarlen at the prow of his vessel, sword raised above his head in challenge to the giant construct. The creature swept its blade down and carved the front off the ship in a single blow, scything Jarlen in two and toppling the remnants into the sea. Another blow rent the longship down the starboard side, flinging men high into the air.

As the longship sunk beneath the waves, the giant turned and pointed it massive sword back towards the beach. Kurt turned his gaze back to the land, and there, just above the waves, he saw the figure of King Nephythys, his golden spear held above his head, in a pose perfectly captured by the statue of him in the city. Bjordrin spluttered into wakefulness beside him, but Kurt’s attention was fixed on the shore.

‘Do not disturb the eternal rest of King Nephythys, Hawk of the Skies, Sorrow of the Foe, Wielder of the Golden Blade,’ Kurt muttered to himself.

‘What’s that?’ asked Bjordrin, following Kurt’s gaze to look at the triumphant king.

Kurt didn’t answer for a moment, and his reply was more for himself than Bjordrin.

‘Not a threat,’ he whispered. ‘Not an order. A warning.’

CHAPTER TWO

TREASURE

Nehekhara, Summer 1711

The air was filled with the stench of sweat and grime as the caravan wound its way along the road alongside the trudging lines of refugees who were fleeing the carnage at Altdorf. Many were deserters, hiding their red and blue uniforms beneath travel-stained cloaks, wounds rotting under filth-encrusted bandages. Here and there along the lines were priestesses of Shallya, who did what they could to provide food, clean water and tend to the ill and the injured, but the tide of human misery was more than all the healers in the Empire could have dealt with.

Fifteen days had passed since they had parted company with Thane Grundab in the foothills of the Grey Mountains west of Wissenburg. For the last seven, they had been surrounded by the tide of refugees. For miles they stretched along the road, some dragged on rough biers by their friends or family, others mere babies carried in bags, the elderly or infirm left on the roadside or surrounded by desperate relatives.

Lady Halste had banned her followers from allowing the refugees to board the carts and wagons, and had pressed them on at some speed. It was obvious to everyone that she was eager to reach the safety of Marienburg and leave the squalor of the ravaged countryside and forests behind her.

Of all the travellers, Taalstock was in the best humour. He had found his confinement in the dwarf holds a terrible tribulation, and had openly wept when they had left, crying at the feel of the fresh mountain air on his face, whooping with joy when the first rains had fallen on them three days later.

His demeanour was more sombre now as his little cart trotted along behind Lady Halste’s housewagon, a deaf ear to the begging refugees, Louda nestled in his lap. Ursula left Ruprecht with their cart and ran ahead to join him.

‘Taal is angry,’ he said as Ursula climbed aboard, turning to her with an anguished expression. ‘His creatures run frightened through the woods, the orcs feast upon his servants and lay waste to their homes.’

‘We all suffer,’ agreed Ursula quietly.

‘And now we must return, disappointed, and without hope,’ the priest said sadly, stroking Louda’s head.

‘I know how you feel,’ replied Ursula. ‘I really believed that Sigmar sent me to Lady Halste.’

‘It seems that both you and I have yet more to learn about the ways of the gods,’ said Gerhardt. ‘Perhaps I did not read the signs rightly. Perhaps there is some lesson to be learnt here that I do not see yet. Every step takes me further from my homeland again. I do not know if my time has passed and I should return to the banks of the Talabec, or if Taal intends for me to continue until things become plainer to see.’

‘Or perhaps the will of the gods is not plain but far-reaching, and we are too short-sighted to see what they intend,’ argued Ursula, patting the old priest on the knee. ‘You told me not to second-guess the gods, and I think that you are right. For good or ill, they set us on our paths, we should see it through to the end. If Taal wished otherwise, then surely he would send new signs to guide you?’

Taalstock laughed suddenly, his eyes glimmering.

‘I see that whatever happens, my time with you has not been wasted!’ he declared brightly. ‘Perhaps the gods wished nothing more than for us to meet. Your brightness, your passion, are refreshing to me, and I see that perhaps your fiery heart has been tempered somewhat by my tiresome preaching.’

‘You’re anything but tiresome!’ Ursula disagreed. ‘Now, tell me about the fish of the rivers. You have taught me the names of the birds in the sky and the beasts upon the earth, but what about the scaled friends of Taal?’

‘Well, in that case I must rectify my oversight,’ said Gerhardt with a smile. ‘We shall begin with the venerable trout, and I shall tell you of the old man of the lake who rules them.’

Another week had passed. They had crossed the ill-defined boundary into the Reikland and were now making their way to Ubersreiks, then on to Helmgarty, avoiding Altdorf by the longest distance possible. The number of refugees had thinned considerably. There were still many, however, who chose to camp with the caravan, perhaps feeling safer in the larger group.

Ursula had woken early in the morning to the sound of light rain on the treetops, and crawled from her bedroll beneath Lady Halste’s wagon. The dawn sky was laden with grey clouds and the gentle rainfall splashed onto her face. A warm wind took the edge off the shower, making it quite pleasant and refreshing. Others were rousing too, starting cooking fires, rolling from their tents with yawns and stretches, sorting through the stores for their breakfast meal.

Ursula decided to take a short walk to wake herself up fully before attending to her mistress’s needs. She crossed the muddy clearing where they were camped and made her way to the treeline, not far from Gerhardt’s small cart. Looking out into the trees, she was aware of the sensation of being watched. She turned around but could not see anyone, and then looked back into the woods. Still there was no sign of an observer.

She stood there for a moment, taking deep breaths of the clear morning air, and then heard a snorting noise from her left. Turning her head slowly, she saw a wild boar standing in the undergrowth no more than a dozen paces away.

Ursula’s heart raced as she faced the tusked beast, and she fought the urge to shout out or turn and run. It was then that she became aware of other animals in the bushes. Rabbits sat under the dripping leaves and squirrels hung from the branches above her. A stag stood not far to her right, gazing past her. Even more amazing, as she looked around further, she saw three wolves sitting calmly in the shelter of a tree, their yellow eyes looking into the camp.

Turning around completely, he saw that they were all gazing at Gerhardt’s cart. She could see the wildfather curled up in his bedroll underneath. On the driving board, Louda was standing up on his back legs. She smiled at Louda, but then her smile faded as she watched the weasel bob up and down in obvious agitation.

Struck with trepidation, she hurried across to the cart, and as she approached Louda bounded from the board and disappeared into the priest’s bedroll. Ursula ducked under to follow.

‘Wildfather?’ she asked tentatively, laying a hand on the bulging bedroll. ‘Gerhardt?’

There was no response. Shifting her position she could see Louda licking the old priest’s face and she shook him harder.

‘Gerhardt!’ she said, prodding him more insistently. With a shaking hand, she pulled him over by the shoulder, rolling him free of his blanket.

Gerhardt’s head lolled towards her in a disturbingly loose fashion. His eyes were open and stared at Ursula without life. With a shriek, Ursula recoiled, banging her head on the underside of the cart, stifling her cry. She reached forward again, and held her hand above the priest’s chest. There was no feel of a heartbeat and she could hear no breathing.

Her heart thudding in her chest she bent forward, and it was then that she saw the marks. The priest’s throat was reddened and bruised, and there were deep scratches on his cheeks and beneath his chin. Ursula pulled herself out from under the cart and stood up, breathing deeply. She stood there for a long while, her mind numb. Then she began to sob. Slowly at first, but soon weeping convulsions wracked her whole body and she collapsed into the damp grass. An agonised moan escaped her, and then she raised her head and screamed, a long, drawn out wail that had soldiers running to her from all over the camp.

Lady Halste insisted that the caravan was not moving until the wildfather’s killer had been found, but after two days of searching and questions, there seemed little chance of finding the person responsible. Ruprecht had led the investigations, his experience with Marius becoming useful for the first time since the witch hunter’s death. Lady Halste’s soldiers rounded up the other travellers who were camped close by and Ruprecht subjected them to lengthy interrogations but could find nothing to indicate anyone who would have the motive to kill the kindly old priest.

There were dark whispers among many of the camp followers, saying that dark forces had attacked and slain the priest. Ruprecht gave the wild rumours little credence, but as each possible avenue of explanation closed to him, he started to fear the worst. Perhaps the superstitious mutterings of the soldiers and artisans were uncomfortably close to the truth.

For the two days, Lady Halste had tended to Ursula. The noblewoman was most concerned about her well being, as Ursula had been found in a semi-comatose state next to Taalstock’s body, stricken with shock, unable to talk or hear anything. Fearing that Ursula may have seen whatever or whoever had attacked Gerhardt, Lady Halste had ordered that the girl be taken to her housewagon, and she had remained there since, the door guarded by two men at all times.

His search having proved fruitless, Ruprecht was left with only one remaining source of information – Ursula. On the second evening after the discovery of Gerhardt’s corpse, he entered the housewagon. Lady Halste was not there, and Ruprecht was alone with the girl.

He sat on the bed beside her, as she lay on her back, staring wide eyed at the brightly patterned ceiling, blinking only occasionally.

‘Ursula,’ he said gently, laying his normal hand on her fevered brow. ‘Wake up, I must talk to you.’

There was no response. He tried again and again for several minutes, but Ursula did not stir, nor even give any indication that she was even aware of his presence. Sighing to himself, Ruprecht reached inside his shirt and pulled out the string of trinkets, charms and talismans he had acquired whilst in Marius’s service. He unhooked a small silver pendant, supposedly blessed by a high priestess of Shallya to ward away evil hexes and curses.

Ruprecht carefully pulled back the covers to reveal Ursula’s chest. It was barely rising and falling. Almost reverentially, he placed the charm over the girl’s heart and pressed it into her flesh. Nothing happened. Closing his eyes, he offered up a prayer to Shallya to guide Ursula’s soul back from the dark places to which it had been taken. Still nothing happened.

Snarling, Ruprecht snatched up the talisman and threw it across the housewagon, where it clattered off the far wall and fell down behind a dresser cluttered with the lady’s personal belongings – perfumes, coloured powders, bracelets, rings and necklaces, all piled haphazardly in front of a small round mirror. The crown of Marbad lay carelessly amongst the strewn bottles and jars.

‘Wake up, Ursula!’ he snapped, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her hard, but she just hung limply in his arms.

He then had another idea. He took the small steel hammer that served as his sign of Sigmar, and closed her fist around it.

‘If she truly is under your protection, lord Sigmar, then please deliver her back to us,’ he whispered. He clenched his hand around hers, until blood trickled from her palm where the sharp edges of the symbol bit into her flesh.

Still, she would not wake.

Shaking his head, he stood up and crossed the housewagon to retrieve the discarded charm. Crouching down, he wedged his hand behind the furniture, fingers feeling for the small pendant. He felt his hand catch on something that tore his flesh and he snatched his hand back. A small trickle of blood oozed from a nick in his finger.

He pulled the dresser forward, toppling perfume bottles and scattering jewellery onto the carpeted floor. Looking behind the dresser, he saw a small silver lever protruding from its back. Bending down, he pushed it, and heard a click. A thin line appeared at the bottom of the dresser.

With his hand pressed flat under the dresser, he eased the secret drawer open. It contained phials of powders and differently coloured liquids. A few scrolls littered the drawer as well. He recognised several charms and pendants from his days with Marius – sorcerous and diabolic symbols. Most of the drawer was taken up by a long bundle of silk scarves wrapped around something. Drawing the hidden compartment out fully, he picked up the roll of silk.

The bundle was light, and felt almost empty, but there was definitely something inside. Taking it carefully in his metal hand, he picked at the knotted material, tossing the scarves aside, revealing the edge of a blade. Frowning, he continued his work, until the whole object was revealed – it was a sword. He held the weapon by its dark leather hilt, and looked at the golden wings splayed either side of the blade. A gem blazed at the pommel, throwing his shadow onto the wall. There was no mistaking it, he remembered Lady Halste’s description perfectly.

It was Ulfshard.

With a shuddering gasp, Ursula sat bolt upright, the tiny hammer flying from her fingers, clattering against the mirror of the dresser. Her eyes were wide open and she gulped down a deep breath, her chest heaving. Ulfshard toppled from Ruprecht’s fingers as he bound across the room to snatch her up in a brawny hug.

‘Praise the gods!’ he cried, squeezing her even tighter, until her panicked mewling forced him to release her. ‘I thought you might never come back to me.’

She looked at Ruprecht, her brow creased in concentration.

‘Come back?’ she asked, looking confused. ‘How long have I been sleeping like this?’

‘Two days,’ Ruprecht said, laying a hand on her forehead and stroking back her hair.

Ursula said nothing. With a befuddled nod, she lay back on the bed, eyes closed, breathing heavily. A few moments passed before she opened them again, her gaze immediately directed to the blade lying on the floor by the far wall.

‘Is… Is that what I think it is?’ she asked hesitantly, her face a mixture of hope and suspicion.

Ruprecht had quite forgotten Ulfshard in his moment of happiness, but now he turned and strode across the room to pick it up. He hefted it in his hand, and it felt as light as a feather.

‘Yes, yes I do believe it is,’ he answered.

‘I saw it in my dreams,’ Ursula mumbled.

‘What dreams?’ asked Ruprecht, crossing back to the bedside.

‘I don’t really remember,’ Ursula told him. ‘I just remember being somewhere cold and bright. There was blue light everywhere, and a voice spoke to me. The sword, it spoke to me, but I could not understand the words. I think it might have been the language of the elves.’

Ruprecht held the sword away from him, eyes wide with amazement and fear, as if it were a snake that might bite him.

‘How did it come to be here?’ Ursula asked, sweeping her legs from the bedclothes and standing up shakily. She reached a hand towards Ruprecht but he drew the sword further away.

‘Perhaps it is better if neither of us touch it,’ he suggested, placing it on the bed and stepping back. ‘Not until we’re sure of it.’

At that moment, the door to the housewagon banged open and Lady Halste stepped inside.

She saw the sword immediately and flew into a rage.

‘What are you doing?’ she said, storming forward. Ursula grabbed her arm as she tried to snatch up Ulfshard, spinning her around. ‘Let go of me!’

She wrestled to break free, but Ursula was much stronger and the noblewoman ended up falling to the floor, hair spilling down around her shoulders, scattering jewel-headed pins. Halste sat there, fuming with indignity, eyes as sharp as broken glass boring into Ursula. Then she looked up at Ruprecht, who flinched from her angry stare.

‘Explain yourselves!’ the noblewoman said, crossing her arms across her chest. She looked comically defiant.

Ruprecht was about to reply when Ursula cut in.

‘I think it is you who have some explaining to do!’ she said with a snarl, pulling Lady Halste up and then propelling her into one of the small chairs that furnished the housewagon. ‘I think it’s us who deserve some answers!’

Halste sat there, silently glowering at the pair of them. She looked from Ursula to Ruprecht and back again, and then relaxed. Then she started to laugh.

‘You think that’s the real Ulfshard?’ she said with a thin smile. ‘Well, I’m glad my gold bought such a convincing forgery.’

‘Forgery?’ said Ruprecht, looking closely at the sword.

‘Yes, I paid the dwarfs to provide me with a replica,’ Halste said. ‘It’s just a symbol after all, I’m not expecting the count to lop off any heads with it or anything. A cunning artifice, which I had to conceal otherwise what would have been the point?’

‘Nonsense,’ said Ursula. ‘Dwarfs would never take part in such a fraud. And they would certainly never agree to forge an elf weapon, whether it is real or not.’

‘And when did you become such an expert on dwarfs, my dearest Ursula?’ said Lady Halste. ‘A month with them and now you know everything about their ways and means and character?’

‘Ursula’s right,’ said Ruprecht. ‘Dwarfs would not willingly take part in such a deception, it’s against their whole sense of honour. In fact, if you had even suggested such a thing, I suspect we would not have been welcome a heartbeat longer in Karak Norn. No, this is the real Ulfshard. It weighs no more than a dagger, and that means there must be elf-magic bound inside.’

Lady Halste looked like she was about to argue the point further, and then stopped. Her head sunk to her chest and she started to sob. Ruprecht and Ursula exchanged disbelieving glances – they were wise to the noblewoman’s playacting nature now. They waited for her to stop the pretence. After a few minutes, the lady looked up at them, tears streaking down her cheeks, her eyes rimmed with red.

‘Alright,’ she wept. ‘I had to have the blade. I’m doomed without it!’

‘What do you mean?’ Ruprecht asked, unconvinced.

‘You cannot tell a soul, not a single person outside must know,’ said Lady Halste. Ursula eyed her suspiciously for a moment, but there was genuine fear in the noblewoman’s eyes. She glanced quickly between the two of them.

‘I can’t promise anything,’ Ursula said, folding her arms. ‘You’ve taken an ancient treasure from the dwarfs. Don’t you think they won’t come after it? In Sigmar’s name, you might have started a war!’

‘You assume I’ve stolen it, that is the loyalty you have for me is it?’ Halste said, standing up and walking to the bedside. Ulfshard seemed to quiver as she approached. ‘The dwarfs will not miss it for a moment. They did not even know where it was. I plied Thane Grundab with ale, a lot of ale, by the gods those dwarfs can drink, until he was drunk enough to tell me more about the sword. He said that the dwarfs knew they had it, but not where it was. To them it’s just another elf-blade. They don’t even consider it treasure. It was the principle that angered the king so much, not the actual artefact. Oh, yes, it was just discarded in some chamber somewhere, out of sight if not out of memory. They sent someone to search the records, but they could find no trace of where they had stored it. That’s why it took the king so long to see us.’

‘You’re expecting us to believe that King Hunkrik lied?’ Ruprecht warned. ‘A dwarf’s every word is his bond, I can’t believe he would do that.’

‘No, he did not lie,’ admitted Halste. ‘As you say, that’s almost physically impossible for their kind. No, he did not lie. What he told us, or rather what his son told us, remember, was that he would not part with Ulfshard for anything. That was true. Even if he had been sat there with the sword on his lap, he would have said the same. The dwarfs have a saying, you know. “What’s yours is mine, and what’s mine’s my own”. They had it and they were going to keep it forever, or until the great storm of the north comes and sweeps us all away, which will happen sooner than the elves paying for its return.’

‘So you stole it?’ said Ursula scornfully. ‘You risked having us all imprisoned, perhaps killed, so you can play politics.’

‘The time for deception is over,’ Halste said, casting her eyes to the ground. ‘What I said is true. Ulfshard is a great symbol for the people of Marienburg and the other counts to rally behind.’

She pointed to the crown of Marbad that now lay on the floor where Ruprecht had moved the dresser.

‘That is not a symbol, it is a piece of worthless iron, ‘said the noblewoman. ‘Besides, I need Ulfshard, not some barbarian king’s crown.’

‘Need it?’ Ruprecht picked up on the noblewoman’s particular choice of words. He knew she always spoke carefully, and never said a word out of place.

‘Yes, I need it,’ agreed Lady Halste, looking at him with her tear-filled eyes. She leant over the bed and reached her hands towards Ulfshard. Ursula stepped forward to intervene but stopped. The noblewoman merely held her palms a foot above the blade, which began to jump on the bed, dancing from side to side. The light from the gem-pommel increased to a blinding glare. Halste withdrew her hand and the sword stopped its peculiar movements, the gem dimming to its normal blue glow.

‘I am possessed, and only Ulfshard can free me…’ Lady Halste told them.

There was a long silence, eventually broken by Ursula’s laugh.

‘I’m telling the truth,’ Lady Halste wailed, looking plaintively at Ruprecht. He was staring at the noblewoman with narrowed eyes.

‘You saw how the sword reacted,’ he told Ursula. ‘Something is not right here.’

‘I was cursed,’ Halste explained weepily. ‘Enemies of my father, they paid an enchantress to summon a creature into my soul. I swear by my life, this body contains a spirit that is not my own!’

‘You sound desperate,’ Ruprecht said warily. ‘Desperate enough to steal from the dwarfs. Desperate enough for this to be true.’

‘Desperate enough to do anything to keep this matter secret,’ Ursula continued, following Ruprecht’s line of thought.

It was a moment before Lady Halste spoke.

‘You think… You think it was I who killed the priest,’ she exclaimed. ‘You think I murdered the wildfather because he discovered something I wanted him to be ignorant of?’

‘I’ve come across men who have killed for less, and women for much less,’ Ruprecht said harshly. ‘Perhaps Gerhardt caught you out, and there was only one way to silence him. Maybe you acted without thinking, striking out in defence of yourself?’

‘No,’ Ursula said suddenly. ‘His neck was snapped. The lady could not even break my grip, she does not have the strength to do such a thing.’

Ruprecht paused and looked at the lady.

‘I have faced many of the evils in this world, perhaps if you were to tell me more, I could help,’ he said finally, gesturing Lady Halste to sit down again.

‘There is nothing,’ she replied, her voice ringing with bitterness. Wiping the tears from her eyelashes, she sat down, hands clasped neatly in her lap. ‘I have spoken to everyone: thaumaturgists, priests, wise men, theologists of my country and elsewhere. I have consulted old books and ancient scrolls. My father’s wealth and power brings considerable benefits, but there were none who could rid me of this curse.’

‘But what actually happened to you?’ Ursula asked, drawing a chair up beside Halste. ‘What is this curse?’

‘I can hear its voice sometimes,’ the lady replied quietly. ‘It whispers in my mind. It says lewd things to me, tells me to do evil things. When I sleep, it comes to me in my dreams, a twisted, horrid thing full of spite and ill will. I try not to listen, but every year it grows harder. I fear for myself, but I fear for others more. It will drive me mad, I swear it. It will make me do vile, disgusting things to myself and others. I will kill myself before I allow that to happen. My father will not concede to his enemies, and so I am doomed to this slow torture. Only the sword, only Ulfshard, contains the power to banish this thing.’

‘How do you know this?’ Ruprecht asked cautiously, sitting on the bed.

‘I learned that there are artefacts of power in the world, crafted by the elves and the dwarfs, and even older races than they are,’ explained Lady Halste. ‘They contain spells to ward against these creatures, to thrust them back to the realm in the north which spawned them. Many were lost thousands of years ago, others fell into the hands of evil warlords. Some the elves and the dwarfs hold still, but I could never have access to them. Ulfshard, I believe, is one of those artefacts which holds enough power to rid me of this infernal presence. I have incantations, prayers if you like, back in Marienburg. If I can release the power of the sword, I might be able to free myself from this living torment.’

The lady’s eyes were moist and bright, and her cheeks flushed at the thought of salvation. Yet Ursula was still not convinced.

‘Why did you not tell the dwarfs the truth?’ she asked. ‘Why did you have to steal the sword?’

‘They would not part with it, not for any reason or price,’ she snarled.

‘Why not bring your incantations with you?’ probed Ruprecht, with a glance at Ursula. ‘If you could not take the sword you would have at least been able to perform your rites at the hold.’

‘Dwarfs despise magic of that kind, they would not permit it,’ Lady Halste replied, shaking her head. ‘And I was afraid. I have lived my life since I was a child with this horrible burden, and I have learned that there are few who can be trusted with this knowledge. I am frightened, and I was scared that if I brought my research with me it might be lost. It has taken decades to glean what I have already, and I left it in Khemen’s safekeeping in Marienburg. He has made the preparations in my absence, collected certain other things required for the ceremony, so that I might perform the ritual as soon as I return.’

She stopped with a choking sob, and her hands wrung at the folds of her long dress.

‘For years I believed that I was doomed, and I came close to suicide more than once,’ she told them. ‘Now freedom, freedom from this curse, is within my grasp. Perhaps I acted wrongly, perhaps I am misguided, but for the first time since I can remember, I have a chance, this one hope, to rid myself forever of the voice that plagues my sleep and my waking dreams.’

They sat there, none of them speaking, for a long while. Ruprecht stood and paced back and forth, deep in thought. Ursula stared at Ulfshard, almost mesmerised by the pulsing light that emanated from its pommel. Finally, Ruprecht spoke.

‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘Though I have never encountered it before, I have heard tales of such possessions, and what you say rings true. We will tell nobody of this and will guard Ulfshard until we reach Marienburg.’

‘The sword is yours once I am done with it,’ Lady Halste promised. ‘Not all that I have said has been fabrication. The count paid me monies for this expedition and I intend that he receive Ulfshard so that our great plan might be put in motion. Though I have more personal reasons for wanting the blade, there is no reason why we can’t all achieve what we set out to do.’

Ursula put her arm around the lady’s shoulders and pulled her close, stroking her hair with her other hand.

‘I am sorry for doubting you,’ she whispered.

‘I am sorry that I used you, deceived you, dearest Ursula,’ Lady Halste replied. ‘Had I known how caring and understanding you would have been, I might have told you the truth from the outset.’

A knock on the door attracted their attention. Ursula stood up and paced quickly across the housewagon, opening the door only a crack. It was Soval, the ex-sailor, and he asked if the caravan could move on. They had searched again for traces of the priest’s killer, but nothing was to be found.

Ursula looked over her shoulder at Ruprecht and Lady Halste. Ruprecht gave a nod. With a heavy heart, Ursula asked that the caravan wait long enough for them to bury the wildfather in the woods, and then they would be on their way.

CHAPTER THREE

DISCOVERY

Reikwald Forest, Late summer 1711

‘What bloody use is that to me?’ Captain Leerdamme bellowed at the short, wiry man standing next to him on the quarterdeck of the Graf Suiden. ‘That won’t feed and water my men for another week!’

‘Captain Leerdamme,’ the considerably younger man replied with a placating wave of his arms, ‘I cannot spare any more of my stores.’

‘I have barely enough supplies to get me back to Marienburg,’ Leerdamme hissed. ‘I know that bastard’s still out here somewhere, and the moment I put into port he’s going to slip past.’

‘My squadron has seen nothing in the last three weeks,’ the other captain assured him. ‘We’ve put in at Erengrad and come back, and there were no signs of other raids by these ships you speak of.’

‘Captain Vierle, I beg you, keep your three wolfships with me for just a month more,’ Leerdamme insisted. ‘I’ve been up and down the Norsca coast since they slipped us with their accursed spells, and there’s been no sign of them. I know where they hail from, and they did not slip past us.’

‘Are you sure of that?’ Captain Vierle asked.

‘Of course I’m bloody sure!’ roared Leerdamme, causing the other officers the deck to pause in their duties, and then look away with the steadfast expression of men who were ignoring something as if their lives depended on it. ‘I took this ship right into sight of the Fjaergard coast, and they had two ships on the beach with their masts down.’

‘Could they not have been the ships you saw?’ Vierle continued. ‘You said it was only two ships.’

‘How many Norse tribes do you know have only two ships to their name?’ snarled Leerdamme. ‘Look, man, I holed one of those bastards with the forechasers, and there was no sign that I could see that those ships were up for repairs. They’d been like that since winter time.’

‘Lord Douwe expects my return within the month,’ argued Vierle. ‘I have to account for the expenditure to him.’

‘Bloody professional navy,’ sneered Leerdamme. ‘I thought this business was about chasing and sinking pirates, grabbing their ships and selling the bastard things off to fill the coffers. That’s why I turned your precious Lord Douwe down. I don’t want to kick my heels in Marienburg while the count decides whether he can be at all arsed to actually do something about the pirates and scum that raid these coasts. Manaan’s salty arse, man, you should have become a quartermaster in the count’s army if you wanted to count salted pork and beer barrels!’

Vierle did not answer, but he was impressed by the privateer captain’s impassioned tirade.

‘Look here,’ Leerdamme said, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘You stay with me, look over the horizon with those fast wolfships of yours, and when we catch those damned Norse, I’ll give you my share of the prize money as well. Come on man, I’ll see your pretty young wife in a new dress before autumn…’

‘How do you know about my wife?’ Vierle asked, taken aback. ‘What’s she got to do with anything?’

‘Look, Vierle, every bloody wolfship commander I have ever known in my thirty-eight years at sea had a pretty young wife,’ Leerdamme reassured him. ‘Real pretty ones, every single one of them. But they’ve got a roving eye and don’t come cheap, do they?’

‘Well, Lisella does want to have a baby, and that means a bigger house…’ admitted Vierle.

‘Exactly,’ agreed Leerdamme with a wink. ‘Now, a double captain’s share of two longships, that’ll set you up nicely for a small ’un to join the crew, won’t it?’

Vierle hesitated for a moment, looking doubtful, and that was his crucial mistake. Spitting in his palm, Leerdamme grasped the other captain’s hand and heartily shook it three times.

‘So, we’ve shaken on it, and I know that a gentleman like you won’t go back on your word,’ grinned Leerdamme.

Unseen behind by the pair of them, Verhoen hurried below. The sound of deep laughter echoed up between the planking a few moments later.

Five days later and Leerdamme was beginning to worry. Although he’d exaggerated how short on supplies he was to persuade Vierle, he really would have to turn back to Marienburg in the next two or three days. Perhaps five or six, he thought, if he could persuade the crew to shorten the rations a little with the promise of prize money.

He couldn’t quite isolate a single reason why it mattered to him so much. Certainly he had seen devastated settlements before. He had even seen the unholy butchery of innocents. But there was something else this time, something that disturbed him on a spiritual level. Maybe it was the fact that he would be returning without a prize for the first time since he had captained his own vessel. He dismissed the notion, knowing that neither he nor his crew needed the money, and that his reputation would not be harmed in the slightest.

No, there was more to it than money and glory. The slaughter of the village had affected him more than any of the other grisly sights he had seen before. He couldn’t reconcile what he knew of the Norse with what he had witnessed. There were too many unanswered questions, such as what had happened at the fort, and why the people had been left to die on the rocky island in the cove. There had been something terrifying unleashed there, something so horrific that his soul was yearning to bring justice to those who had set it free.

And where had the Norse gone, he wondered? Often they would raid for a month, sometimes even two, at a time, but he would swear by Manaan that these ones were still out there somewhere.

Just where they were hiding nagged at Leerdamme, only increasing his desire to see them again.

As if Manaan had answered his prayers, Leerdamme was called on deck in the middle of that afternoon. One of Vierle’s wolfships was bearing down hard from the north, a red pennant fluttering at her masthead. As she closed, Leerdamme saw that it was Vierle’s own ship, the Resplendant. Calling for the officer of the watch to set more sail so that they might catch up as quickly as possible, Leerdamme went back down to his cabin to await the other captain’s arrival.

It seemed like an eternity but was in fact less than an hour until Leerdamme heard booted feet tramping on the deck above and the squeal of pulleys as Vierle’s boat was pulled in to the side of the ship. He resisted the urge to race up to the deck and instead walked over to his cabinet and poured two glasses of Middenland brandy. Placing them on his small chart table, he sat down again and looked at the map of the Sea of Claws spread there.

He turned as Vierle knocked at the door, and called the young man in.

‘Sit down, have a drink!’ Leerdamme welcomed him. ‘Nice of you to visit.’

‘A single sail, nor’east,’ blurted Vierle, standing behind the chair.

‘Sit down, calm yourself. Have a drink,’ insisted Leerdamme, standing up and forcing Vierle into the chair with a heavy hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m sure Lord Houwe would not consider that a suitable report.’

‘My apologies,’ said Vierle with a bow of his head. ‘I couldn’t believe it, had to go to the top with a glass to see for myself.’

‘And what did you see?’ prompted Leerdamme.

‘A red and white sail, just as you described,’ grinned Vierle. ‘I’ve got the Emmanuel and the Fortune to seaward of them, pushing them towards the north.’

‘A single sail, you say?’ asked Leerdamme. ‘No sign of t’other?’

‘No, we checked, but there’s only one of them,’ confirmed Vierle, the brandy glass clutched to his chest in both hands like a holy relic. ‘She seemed awfully low in the water, perhaps the other ran into trouble and they had to take the other crew on board.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ sighed Leerdamme. ‘What course are they heading.’

‘Directly nor’east when we turned to find you,’ Vierle answered quickly. ‘They’re heading straight as an arrow to Fjaergardhold, just like you said.’

‘Well, we best make sure they don’t get there,’ said Leerdamme, standing up and draining his glass.

‘The wind’s turning against them, perhaps two point east,’ remarked Vierle as they exited the cabin and made their way up the steps to the quarterdeck. ‘If I take the Resplendant north while the wind’s fair, we can turn her westward. Should be easy to chase her onto the others then.’

‘Remember, you have to be in sight of the kill to get the prize, so don’t dawdle,’ warned Leerdamme as he escorted the wolfship captain back to the side where his boat was awaiting him. ‘Run up a yellow pennant when you think she’s about due west of me, and I’ll follow you in!’

‘Aye, captain, and may I say it’s a pleasure to work with you,’ smiled Vierle.

‘You always were a sensible lad, Vierle. Keep with me and I’ll see you right,’ promised Leerdamme as Vierle lowered himself over the side with a jaunty wave.

The captain of the Graf Suiden turned and bellowed to the quarterdeck.

‘Herr Verhoen, set t’gallants as soon as you like,’ he roared. ‘We’ve got some pirates to catch!’

CHAPTER FOUR

TRAP

Sea of Claws, Summer 1711

‘We must run!’ said Bjordrin, grabbing Kurt’s shoulder as he stood at the prow of the longship, brandishing his sword towards the Imperial wolfship that closed in over the horizon. To starboard, the high cliffs of Norsca could just be seen rearing above the distant sea.

‘No! We will fight!’ said Kurt, flinging Bjordrin to the deck with a sweep of his arm. ‘Did we not face a legion of the dead? It is a single wolfship, no more than two hundred men.’

‘And two long cannons in the bow that will crack our hull apart before we can board her,’ said Bjordrin, picking himself up. He stood directly in front of Kurt and then pointed back to port. ‘And there is more than one!’

Kurt looked to where Bjordrin pointed, and appearing just above the horizon were the topmasts of two more ships.

‘They have us trapped,’ Bjordrin said. ‘If we run now, we can slip north-west, and lose them again in the icy waters west of Norsca. I have done this before, I know what we should do.’

Kurt growled to himself, staring murderously at the approaching Imperial ships, his sword still in his hand. Bjordrin flinched as the Chosen turned towards him, his gaze full of venom.

‘How could you let us get ensnared like this?’ demanded Kurt.

‘It was you who insisted we head for Fjaergard as quickly as possible,’ said Bjordrin in a hushed voice. ‘They knew where we hail from, and they were waiting for us.’

‘Then get us out of here,’ said Kurt, pushing past Bjordrin and storming along the deck towards the stern. ‘Jakob, get here!’

The shaman scurried along the deck from where he had been curled up midships.

‘Swing the tide in our favour,’ Kurt said, pointing to the shaman’s runestones.

‘I cannot,’ Jakob said with a shake of his head. He pulled out the runestones. They were dull and lifeless in his hand. ‘The gods require a sacrifice before they breathe again on the stones. There is nothing I can do.’

Kurt did not argue. He could feel the coldness in the air. This far north, he had expected to feel the surging winds of magic through his body, but there was nothing. The gods had left them to their own endeavours this time.

Bjordrin bellowed the order to furl the sail, man the sweeps and row northwards. It was a risky move, as wolfships were designed for chasing marauders in and out of the fjords and had their own oars for moving against the wind.

‘Bend your backs to it!’ roared Bjordrin. ‘Row like never before unless you want to see your gold in the vaults of a fat Empire merchant!’

Bjordrin stared out over the side of the ship at the wolfship ahead, waiting for the change in the shape of the sails that would indicate they were turning into the wind and would be cutting them off. For several minutes the two ships were on a converging course, until they were close enough for Bjordrin to make out the small figures of the sailors on the rigging and manning the cannons.

‘Come on, turn your bow cannons on us,’ he said to himself, urging the enemy captain to change course. It was the only chance they had of breaking through – the wolfship to turn more directly towards them in the hope of crippling them with its cannons. If they survived the few minutes of fire the enemy had, they would be in a position to race northwards, breaking for the open sea. By the time the wolfship had shortened sail and changed heading, they would be too far to catch them by nightfall and the Norse could slip back to Fjaergard in the darkness.

But it looked as if the enemy captain was content to head them off, risk a boarding action and hold them until his reinforcements arrived. Bjordrin cursed under his breath.

Then, slowly at first but with gathering speed, the sails of the wolfship fattened as it turned until its bow was slicing through the waves directly towards the longship. Bjordrin laughed aloud for a moment, and then fell silent as two puffs of smoke billowed from the wolfship’s prow. A few seconds passed and then one cannonball skipped across the waves more than a hundred yards ahead, the other plunging into the sea with a fountain of white spume.

Bjordrin dashed down the deck to the tiller and took over from the man who was there. Laden down with the weight of the treasure they had taken, the ship was low in the water and handled sluggishly. Pushing his full weight against the tiller, Bjordrin strained as the rowing of the Norsemen dragged the ship forward, turning towards the wolfship. If he judged this right, they would have to weather two, perhaps three, more salvoes of fire and then they would pass by the wolfship with several hundred yards of open sea between them.

The captain of the wolfship had realised his mistake, and Bjordrin saw sailors scurrying up the rigging and pulling on ropes to shorten sail and reduce their headway. The cannons fired again, as the wolfship rose on a swell. A black blur whirred overhead, but the second shot impacted on the longship’s prow, spraying splinters along the oar benches. Men slumped at the sweeps, bleeding from dozens of cuts, some falling to the floor, arteries severed, limbs torn to ragged stumps.

‘Keep rowing!’ Kurt bellowed as some of Norse stood up to help their wounded comrades.

The two ships were less than three hundred yards apart now, heading directly towards each other. The stylised wolfshead ram jutting from the prow of the enemy vessel was plated with polished silver, dripping water as it sliced through the heaving waves. Bjordrin swung the tiller around, throwing his weight to the other side of the deck, heading to pass along the port side of the wolfship.

Bjordrin watched as the wolfship’s sails were furled and sweeps were run out from its sides.

‘Too late!’ he crowed as the enemy oarsmen began to pick up the rhythm of the stroke and the wolfship turned into the wind. He turned to the Norseman who waited beside the tiller and nodded for him to take the helm. ‘Keep her straight ahead.’

He joined Kurt in the middle of the deck, just in front of the mast, and stood there watching the Imperial wolfship foundering as it tried to turn quickly to keep its prow pointing at the Norse vessel.

‘Call yourselves sailors!’ roared Bjordrin, raising a fist in triumph as they swept past the wolfship, barely a hundred yards away. Kurt was shouting too, his sword pointed at the enemy captain standing on the quarterdeck of the other ship.

Handgun fire crackled and bullets whined nearby but missed their mark. Kurt pointed up to the sharpshooters in the wolfship’s rigging, busily reloading their muskets. Bjordrin slapped his chest, defying them to hit him.

As the wolfship passed astern, another volley of fire sent bullets whirring into the deck planking. A smoking ball wedged into the masthead beside Bjordrin’s head and he flinched as a sliver of wood embedded itself in his cheek. Blood trickled down onto his lip and he licked it.

‘The taste of battle,’ he said with a grin. He and Kurt walked to the stern and watched the wolfship as it continued its long turn. By the time it was following them, they would be a mile ahead and pulling away northwards.

Kurt clapped a massive hand to Bjordrin’s shoulder.

‘I’m sorry,’ Kurt said. ‘I asked you to be my captain, I should not have doubted you.’

Bjordrin’s smile faded.

‘You are an intelligent man, Kurt,’ the Norseman said. ‘You will be a great leader one day. You can fight better than any man I have ever known, but you must learn that there are some fights that even the strongest warrior cannot win.’

Kurt did not reply, but turned and walked away, his sword still in his hand.

He won’t listen, Bjordrin thought. Men who hear the voices of the gods never listen to the voices of men.

Kurt stood looking up at the stars, feeling welcome at the familiar sight after the strange night skies of the Great Ocean and Araby. They had waited for night to fall before turning south again, hoping to slip past the prowling Imperial ships. Mannslieb, the white moon, was half full and low on the horizon, while Morrslieb was yet to rise. Only a few miles east lay the coast of Norsca, and the glorious return that awaited them.

The sail flapped, breaking the quiet of the ship. Most of the crew were asleep, a few still awake to respond to Bjordrin’s clipped orders to trim the sail as the wind veered and shifted occasionally. Kurt strolled along the deck, the sight of the treasure-filled sacks and chests wedged into every available space bringing a smile to his lips. His first raid, one of the greatest of any Norscan, was about to end.

He savoured the feeling of success. Never before had he felt such triumph. Not when he had been a knight of the Osterknacht. Not even when he had slain the witch hunter, Marius van Diesl, and avenged the murder of his parents. This time he had set out to do something, and he had achieved it. He had earned and fought for everything he now had, and the sensation was better than any false glory he had been given before. Now he truly felt like he was the Chosen.

As he watched the stars rising and falling with the movement of the ship, he leaned against the mast and looked out over the prow. Somewhere out in the darkness lay Fjaergard, and Anyata and Heldred were waiting there for him. He longed to see his wife and son again, and the thought that the time when he would do so was closing fast only heightened his contentment. Surely even the richest count or king never felt so happy.

Something odd in the sky above the horizon attracted his attention. He could see a cluster of yellow stars that he had never seen before. They seemed to sway against the blackness. He walked to the tiller to ask Bjordrin about them.

‘What do you call that group of stars over there?’ Kurt said, pointing at the group of yellow pinpoints of light.

Bjordrin looked at them for a moment and then hissed.

‘I call them lanterns, you fool,’ Bjordrin said.

Kurt looked again and only then did he see the slightly paler expanse behind the spots of light, reflecting their glow. Under topsails, the Imperial greatship was bearing down on them.

‘Rouse yourselves!’ shouted Kurt, running down the deck. ‘Wake up!’

Bjordrin grabbed a shield and drew a knife from his belt banging its hilt repeatedly against the shield boss, the metallic thudding resounding along the ship. With sleepy murmurs, the men and women awoke, grasping for weapons and shields, staring bleary-eyed around the ship.

A loud retort and a flash of orange signalled the greatship’s first shot, the ball whining past the longship’s stern and splashing into the sea a hundred yards further on.

‘Ranging shot,’ said Bjordrin, handing the tiller to another sailor so that he could ready his own battlegear. Kurt ran up beside him.

‘This is one of those fights we cannot win?’ he said, casting a glance at the greatship. She was beginning to turn, bringing her full two-deck broadside to bear against the longship.

‘We’ll be crushed by the first salvo,’ said Bjordrin with a nod.

‘Then let’s turn and head away. Surely we can outrun her,’ said Kurt, gripping the stern of the ship until the wood began to splinter under his incredible strength.

‘That would make things worse,’ said Bjordrin. ‘If they fire at the stern or prow, the cannonballs will travel the length of the ship, destroying us even more quickly.’

‘Then what do we do?’ Kurt asked, releasing his hold on the ship’s timbers and taking an uncertain step towards the prow.

‘Turn with her, keep between their broadside and forecannons, and head for shallow waters,’ Bjordrin told him. ‘It’s the only way we can shake them loose.’

‘I trust you,’ Kurt said, gripping Bjordrin’s arm. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘You are the Chosen, you can pray to the gods that you are still in their favour,’ said Bjordrin before walking away, shouting orders to keep the longship on the same heading as the Imperial vessel.

Kurt strode to the mast and drew his sword, though there was nothing that he could do with it to help them out of their predicament. He stood there in anxious frustration as the crew hurried to their tasks around him, casting occasional fearful glances at the immense greatship that could be seen looming in the darkness, gliding along to port and astern of them.

As they pitched and rolled through the waves, the greatship set her mainsails and began to overhaul them. The slap of waves against hull, the heavy, nervous panting of the crew and the creak of timbers were the only sounds to be heard in the still night.

Time passed. Mannslieb rose higher in the sky and the green glow of Morrslieb appeared on the horizon. Nothing had changed. Not a shot had been fired, not a shout heard. Kurt turned as he heard footsteps on the planking, and saw Bjordrin walking towards him.

‘Disciplined crew, sensible captain,’ Bjordrin said.

‘How do you know?’ asked Kurt, turning to the Norseman.

‘See how he waits,’ Bjordrin said. ‘He knows his ship is faster, but we can turn more quickly. He also guesses that we are running for the coast.’

‘So?’ said Kurt.

‘He is hoping to trap us between him and the coast, and then come alongside and blow us out of the water,’ Bjordrin said. ‘He is a patient man. Other captains would open fire quickly. He has been waiting here for us. He used the wolfships to scare us northwards, knowing we would come back this way at night.’

‘Perhaps you’d like to join his crew instead?’ said Kurt.

‘Respect for enemies who deserve it is not wrong,’ Bjordrin said. ‘Only by the quality of the enemies we outwit or defeat can the gods judge us.’

‘Very wise,’ Kurt said, looking across the half a mile of water that separated the two ships. ‘So what is your plan to outwit him?’

Bjordrin shrugged.

‘I do not think we can,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘He has all the advantages of size, strength and position. If he cannot sink us tonight, he can wait for us to present him with an opportunity to do so tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that.’

‘Like a hunter,’ said Kurt, trying to picture the man stood on the quarterdeck of the other ship. What was he thinking? Was he worried that they had outwitted him? That he had perhaps gambled too much on finding them in the dark? A thought occurred to him. ‘On the sea, he has every advantage, you say?’

‘We cannot fight him, and we cannot run from him forever,’ said Bjordrin.

‘Then we give him what he wants,’ said Kurt. Bjordrin frowned.

‘What do you intend to do?’ the Norseman said.

‘Run us aground,’ Kurt said, breaking his gaze from the greatship and looking directly at Bjordrin. ‘He cannot follow us across land.’

Bjordrin laughed, a hollow sound in the still night.

‘He wouldn’t have to, we would already be dead,’ Bjordrin said.

‘A longship can be beached,’ Kurt said, scratching the stubble on his chin as he thought.

‘Yes, but we cannot find a suitable landing in the dark,’ Bjordrin said. ‘It would be too easy for us to come up on rocks, or against a cliff. We need a low shore.’

‘We are being slowly hemmed in against the rocks and cliff anyway!’ said Kurt, banging his fist against the mast. ‘Do we have any other choice?’

Bjordrin was silent for a moment, and his gaze switched between the greatship and Kurt, weighing up the situation.

‘In the names of the gods, why not!’ he said eventually, a grin splitting his bearded face. ‘I think the gods favour you still, Kurt Sutenmjar, and will deliver us back to our homes.’

‘It is good that you still have faith in me,’ Kurt said over his shoulder as he walked away.

‘I think that the gods like a man as crazy and bold as you!’ Bjordrin called out after him.

The quiet of the night had been replaced by a maelstrom of noise. Ahead, the surf roared against the rocks and cliffs that stretched out from the coast of Norsca. Realising their intent, the captain of the greatship had opened fire and the boom of the greatship’s cannons and the howling passage of their shot filled the air. The longship clattered with activity as the Norse prepared for their risky landing, tying down everything they could, gathering up their belongings and throwing away any surplus material that weighed the ship down more than was necessary. Bjordrin stood at the tiller, his eye constantly on the dim shoreline ahead, shouting orders to the sailsmen.

‘Are we going too fast?’ said Kurt.

A cannonball tore into the hull around midships, flinging warriors and timber fragments into the sea in a spray of wood and flesh. The screams of the wounded added to the cacophony.

‘Do you want to slow down and give him more time?’ asked Bjordrin, glancing at the greatship pulling alongside. So far they had been spared a full broadside, but in a few minutes, their fate would be sealed.

‘I take your point,’ said Kurt. He called out to Lina Half-wolf, who was standing at the prow looking ahead with her unnaturally sharp eyes. ‘How far’s the shore? How quickly is the bottom shoaling?’

The Norsewoman turned and yelled back.

‘Half a mile to the shore,’ she said. ‘There’s rocks everywhere.’

Another cannonball impact made the longship shiver as stowed oars and a rowing bench erupted into splinters. A moment later that was a crack overhead and the yardarm snapped in the middle. Trailing rope, the yard and sail crashed down on the deck, flattening men and women beneath it. Bjordrin cursed loudly and shouted orders to cut the rope with axes and toss the useless sail over the side.

Two men struggled with one half of the yard, manhandling it to the ship’s side, but it was caught in a tangle of ropes and shattered wood. Kurt ran forward and snatched a handaxe from one of the men working to cut the wreckage free. With swift blows, he hacked at the rigging and then tossed the axe aside. Bracing his feet, Kurt grabbed hold of the remaining piece of spar and hefted it to his shoulder. Legs trembling with the weight he ran to the side and heaved the timber overboard, snapped rope whipping over the side after it.

‘Those that can row, get to the oars,’ Kurt shouted, scooping up a corner of the tattered canvas sail and dragging it to the starboard gunwhale. Hand over hand, he heaved the heavy sailcloth over the side, and as it soaked up the seawater the additional weight threatened to drag him over for a moment until he braced himself with one leg against the side.

Despite their predicament, it seemed as if the gods did still favour Kurt for his exploits in their name. They were riding a tidal swell towards the coast, the haphazard rowing of the Norse combining with the pressure of the wind against the hull itself. Ahead, the sea boomed against rocks that rose out of the water like small, jagged mountains in the darkness, clouds of spume marking their position.

‘Is everything secure?’ Bjordrin asked over the noise, receiving shouts of assent in return. ‘Hold onto something firm!’

It became impossible to row as the longship was buffeted and pitched by the rising swell. The hull scraped along a rock to starboard, snapping oars that hadn’t been drawn in. The ropes tying down the heavy chests of gold and gems creaked alarmingly as their burdens shifted with the movement of ship. A wave crashed up over the stern, slamming the ship forwards and lifting the aft out of the water as the vessel pitched forwards. A rope snapped somewhere and a barrel rolled free down the deck, straight towards Lina, who was clinging to the figurehead, her shouted directions lost in the storm of water.

Kurt hurled himself into the path of the barrel, his shoulder colliding with it. Wrapping an arm around its top, he wrenched it to a stop, sliding down the deck on the slippery boards. Hauling himself to his feet, Kurt lifted the half-empty barrel over his head and hurled it over the side.

Another crashing noise rang above the sound of the tumultuous sea, and Kurt turned just in time to see flame and smoke billowing from the greatship as she fired her first full broadside. The air was filled with flying metal, thundering into the hull of the ship and scream across the deck. Planks exploded, men and women were scythed into or dismembered by the fusillade. The rudder shattered, the tiller flew out of Bjordrin’s hands and hurled him to the deck, his shoulder dislocated.

Bodies and body parts were slumped everywhere, and the decking under foot was awash with water and blood. Almost immediately Kurt felt their passage slowing as the sea poured into holes beneath the waterline.

With a scraping crash, the longship tore her hull out on an underwater reef, bringing her to a shuddering halt. Her momentum suddenly checked, the longship’s mast swayed forwards and began to bend. Wooden spikes popped at the seams and the decking was torn up as the mast went by the boards, pulling up planks and tearing a gaping hull from the ship’s keel.

The mast crashed down onto Kurt’s leg, crushing it inside his armour. Others had their ribs mangled or their skulls caved in as the mast bounced across the deck. The longship listed heavily to port as she settled on the rocks and the mast rolled across the deck, snapping legs and bouncing over those already lying wounded on the deck and benches.

Bone ground against bone in Kurt’s thigh as he forced himself to stand, and bit back the searing agony in his leg. They had almost reached the shore; he could see the waves crashing against an area of low land just a dozen yards away.

‘We have to get off!’ yelled Bjordrin, his injured arm hanging limply by his side. ‘Another broadside will kill us all!’

‘Grab the wounded and the treasure, take it all ashore,’ Kurt said, picking his way through the piles of dead and injured. The crew were recovering their senses and began to look for those who were still alive. Using broken spars and shattered pieces of decking, they hitched together three crude rafts and lowered the wounded over the side. The strongest swimmers set off, pulling the rafts through the roiling waves with ropes tied around their waists.

As soon as they left, Kurt turned to see what the greatship was doing.

Her broadside spent, she was heading away from the coast to tack across the wind and come in again. They only had a few minutes before she finished the destruction she had begun.

Using an axe to cut through the binding ropes, Kurt began to pull the treasure chests and sacks free and place them towards the ship’s prow.

‘Leave that, get ashore,’ said Bjordrin, grabbing Kurt’s arm as he took a swing at another rope. Kurt hurled him backwards.

‘I’m not leaving this!’ he said, chopping through the rope and dragging the chest clear with his free hand.

‘It’s no good if you’re dead,’ said Bjordrin, pushing himself to his feet with a wince.

‘It’s no good living if we return without it!’ Kurt replied. ‘Too many men and women have died to get this for us to abandon them now.’

Bjordrin stood there a moment and looked as if he was going to argue. Seeing Kurt’s hard expression, he thought better of it and with his uninjured arm began to drag a sack of gold plates and goblets to the pile accumulating in the prow.

The rafts returned from the shore. One was needed to ship the rest of the wounded, while the Norse loaded the other two with the treasure. The first chest-laden raft headed off and they began to pile the remaining loot onto the other.

An ominous rumble heralded the greatship’s next broadside and a few seconds later the longship exploded in a storm of hot iron, plunging men, women, chests and sacks into the freezing sea. Kurt felt something strike him in the back and was flung clear of the wreckage trailing a stream of blood. He hit the water face first and sank beneath the surface.

Verhoen gave an exultant shout as he stood next to his captain watching the remnants of the longship slip beneath the waves.

‘Shame there’ll be no prize money,’ said the Van der Stree. The bosun was standing behind them, using Leerdamme’s eyeglass to survey the carnage. ‘There’s nothing left of her ’cept firewood.’

‘I’ll see you all handsomely rewarded for tonight’s work, never you mind that,’ said Leerdamme, turning away from the sight of the wreck.

‘Actually,’ said Van der Stree. ‘The men don’t mind not being paid. We’re glad to see justice done to those heathen scum.’

‘Then they deserve the reward even more,’ said Leerdamme. ‘Herr Verhoen, I’ll be in my cabin writing a letter to the count to that effect, if you need me. Set a course for Marienburg.’

CHAPTER FIVE

ESCAPE

Sea of Claws, Summer 1711

The Haggard Fox inn was a strangely reassuring sight for Ursula as she and Ruprecht walked along the street towards it. They had travelled far in the last few months, staying nowhere for more than a day or two, except for the strange underworld of Karak Norn. A lot had happened to Ursula in that time but, somehow, seeing the non-descript exterior of the guesthouse reassured her that not everything had changed.

The watchmen were just beginning their evening patrols, lighting the street lanterns as they did their rounds, and darkness was descending on Marienburg. There was still the distant noise of the harbour, which only slowed rather than stopped during the night hours, and through the shuttered windows of the inn came a warm glow.

They had parted company with Lady Halste at the gate – they to find lodgings here, she to return to her apartments to find Khemen and prepare herself for the purifying ceremony that would rid her of the daemonic intrusion in her soul. Swinefever and his Red Spear Company had left the caravan three days before arriving, to seek employment further north following travellers’ rumours that war between Nordland and Middenland loomed closer. Soval had promised to meet them later for a final drink, and had headed to the docks to inquire after a berth to take him further up the coast, or perhaps even to a more distant flung battlefield.

He never met his promise, having found himself passage to the new world in Lustria, where it is claimed he met up with the pirate Eddard Tetch and later died of a lung-rotting fever in the steaming jungles of the Land of Gold.

The seven surviving members of the Black Company had decided to go their separate ways, receiving their payment from Lady Halste and then leaving to seek fortune elsewhere. A few of the other mercenaries had stayed until Marienburg, but now they all followed a different path into the future.

Though the expedition had been filled with great loss and heartbreaking experiences for her, there was a part of Ursula that wished that it had not ended. Perhaps it was the wandering of her childhood, perhaps the sense of purpose their mission had given her, but at times as they had wound their way across the Empire she had felt more at home than anywhere else before. Even when they had faced almost certain death in the Grey Mountains before the arrival of the dwarfs, or when she had travelled the many lonely miles back to Marienburg without the company of Wildfather Taalstock, Ursula had felt a strange sense of belonging. She wondered, as they stood for a moment outside the Haggard Fox, if perhaps this were truly the end of the road. An ill-defined feeling of foreboding told her that this was but the close of one chapter of her life and that the next would begin soon.

‘Pie and ale!’ grinned Ruprecht, swinging his travelling sack from his shoulder and opening the door for Ursula with his iron hand.

Ursula stepped through, hanging her travelling cloak and knapsack on the rack within without hesitation. Lady Halste had tried to insist she take the chest of clothes that had been bought for her, but Ursula had no need of the fineries she had been given. She had hardly worn them even as maid to the noblewoman, and she was sure there would be even less reason to wear them in the future.

As they strode into the main room, Ursula felt none of the trepidation of her previous visit. Just as last time, there were a few scoundrels and roguish-looking types drinking inside, but they hardly gave her and Ruprecht a second glance. It was if they were marked, something about them that told others in the know that they were seasoned veterans now. Perhaps it was a look in the eye, the weathering of the skin, the faded, stained clothes.

Bustling across the room with a tray of mugs and goblets came Ruud Goeyen. He caught sight of them in his good eye and smiled. Quickly passing the drinks onto a table surrounded by a group of stevedores, he waved them to a low seat by the fire.

‘Welcome back!’ he grinned.

‘You remember us?’ Ursula asked, sitting down.

‘I may have only the one peeper, but I never forget a face as pretty as yours,’ Goeyen said, ushering Ruprecht down next to Ursula. ‘I hear your endeavours were perilous.’

‘From who?’ asked Ruprecht suspiciously.

‘This is Marienburg, not a thing passes the gate but everyone knows about by the morning!’ laughed Goeyen. ‘It’ll be ale you’re wanting, yes?’

‘And pies!’ Ursula added, slapping her hand on the table. ‘Two large, quality steak pies if you have them!’

‘I have whatever my patrons desire,’ replied Goeyen with a wink. ‘Providing they’ve got the coin, which I know you have on account of the fact that you’re actually back.’

Goeyen’s eye caught sight of Ruprecht’s hand and widened in amazement.

‘Well, of all the stories I’d heard, that was the one I’d least believed,’ he exclaimed quietly. ‘A man with an iron hand, they said.’

Ruprecht self-consciously pulled the artificial limb towards his lap.

‘No offence, patron!’ Goeyen added hurriedly. ‘They say you lost it felling a brute of an orc, by some accounts.’

‘Who says that?’ asked Ruprecht. ‘What else did they say?’

‘Soldiers gossip, worse than fishwives,’ Goeyen replied. ‘Others had it that it was bitten off by a bear.’

‘It was an orc,’ confirmed Ruprecht gruffly, a scowl on his face.

‘Then the pie and ale is on my account tonight, to thank you for saving your beautiful companion for us to enjoy the company of again,’ Goeyen said with a look that would countenance no argument.

Without a further word, Goeyen turned and walked off, leaving the two of them sitting there. Neither said anything, and the host returned a short while later with a large plate of pie and potatoes and two mugs of dark ale. They tucked in without ceremony, Ursula wolfing hers down and finishing even before Ruprecht, who was no slouch with a knife and fork. Licking gravy off her fingertips, Ursula grabbed her tankard and sat back.

‘I never realised how much I would miss a good pie,’ she said finally, making Ruprecht laugh.

‘Well, you’re a hardened adventurer now,’ he joked. ‘Life’s little comforts mean a lot to a world-weary traveller like yourself.’

‘Hey!’ she replied in mock protest, slapping him on the arm. ‘It’s not like I stood around just looking pretty when the orcs charged!’

‘No you didn’t, I’ll give you that,’ Ruprecht said sombrely.

‘I’m sorry, I mean, I didn’t suffer…’ she trailed off, glancing at his hand.

‘Away with you,’ he laughed. ‘They’ll be calling me Ruprecht the Ironhand before the end of the week. There’s not any amount of gold can buy a man a name and a reputation like that.’

‘So is that what you’re going to do?’ Ursula asked, taking a sup of her beer. ‘Perhaps keep soldiering?’

‘I figure I don’t have to make any rash decisions,’ Ruprecht answered slowly.

‘What does that mean?’ Ursula asked, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

‘I just mean that I’ve got crowns in my pocket to last me a while,’ Ruprecht said defensively.

‘Tell me!’ Ursula demanded, pinching his ear. ‘Tell me before I twist your ear off!’

‘Alright, alright!’ Ruprecht conceded, pulling away. His expression became serious. ‘I reckon I might stick with you a while. Trouble’s followed you like a shadow lately.’

‘I know what you mean,’ sighed Ursula. She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Lady Halste has Ulfshard, and she says she’ll pass it to the count when she has harnessed its power, but I still don’t know if I trust her completely.’

Ruprecht reached forward and grabbed his beer mug, downing the contents in one long draught.

‘Let’s not fret about it, eh?’ he said, slamming the tankard down. ‘For one night, let’s just enjoy ourselves for once. Whatever the gods want to throw at us next, I’m sure they’ll have the decency to leave it until tomorrow.’

‘And besides,’ said Ursula, emptying her own pint pot and then grinning. ‘Drinks are free tonight!’

The gods indeed left them to their own entertainment that night, and the next day and for two days more. They each took a private room at the Haggard Fox, slept late, rose for lunch and wiled away the hours resting. Ursula ventured into the merchant quarter to spend some of the money she had earned, and also visited the temple of Sigmar to spend a day in thanks.

On the fourth night, the gods were not so kind. An insistent tapping at his door, just after midnight, woke Ruprecht. He opened the door a crack and saw Ursula standing there, a figure behind her in the shadows.

‘Let us in,’ she hissed, pushing at the door.

Ruprecht stepped back and allowed her to enter. Behind her came Khemen, Lady Halste’s Arabian aide, his face creased with worry.

‘What’s wrong?’ Ruprecht demanded, closing the door behind them.

Ursula thrust a scrap of crumpled paper into his hand and he smoothed it out to read it. The message was scrawled in uneven lines:

Come at once, all is not good,

Lady Halste

Ruprecht looked at it, then up at Khemen and then back at the note.

‘The lady gave you this to bring to us?’ he asked. Khemen nodded quickly.

‘She bid me to bring it to Ursula,’ the Arabian replied. ‘She has been preparing for her ceremony all day, and at dusk called to me. She looked in a terrible state. Her eyes were distant, haunted. She trembled as she wrote it, and her voice was slurred. She has been imbibing certain sacred potions and burning blessed incense, and I fear that perhaps they have poisoned her or worse.’

‘How long ago was this?’ Ruprecht asked, crossing the room to grab his shirt and jerkin.

‘Several hours,’ admitted Khemen, wringing his hands together. ‘I am afraid that I stayed for a long while to make sure she did not need my assistance, and was scared to leave her. Noises started to come from her chambers and I hurried here. I have a carriage waiting to take us back. You must help her!’

Ruprecht then noticed that Ursula had her sword belt buckled on.

‘We have to make sure Ulfshard is safe,’ she insisted. ‘I think our good lady might have deceived us after all.’

‘Then why the note?’ Ruprecht replied, pulling his shirt on over his head and tucking it in. He reached under the bed and pulled out his hammer.

‘We can get answers later,’ Ursula said, opening the door. ‘We’ll meet you downstairs.’

Ruprecht stood idle for a moment after they had left, his mind still befuddled with ale and sleep. Grabbing the pitcher of water he upended the contents over his head, gasping at the touch of the cool liquid. Less dazed, he pulled on his boots and hurried after the other two.

The double doors shuddered constantly and red light spilled beneath and between them. They could hear a hissing noise and occasionally banging from inside the chamber. Ursula drew her sword in a shaking hand, but Ruprecht pushed her to one side and stepped forward.

‘Stay back,’ he warned, looking at Khemen and taking hold of one of the door handles. The metal felt warm to the touch.

He twisted the handle and pushed, but the door yielded no more than half an inch. Pushing harder, he managed to open the door a little more, smoke drifting through the opening. Grunting with the effort, he threw his weight against it, but the door would shift no further.

‘Lady Halste!’ Ursula shouted, banging on the door. ‘Lady Halste!’

‘Do something, I beg of you,’ pleaded Khemen, tugging at Ruprecht’s jerkin.

The Talabheimer raised his hammer and dealt the door a shuddering blow, splintering the wood, yet the doors still did not move. Grasping the hammer in both hands, he swung back for another strike.

Before the head of the hammer landed, the doors flew inwards, slamming against the walls inside.

The scene inside was like something from a nightmare. The floor of the room was covered in intertwining geometric shapes and symbols, which burned with a dark red light. Thick black smoke hung in heavy clouds across the ceiling, roiling with a life of its own. Faces appeared and disappeared, burning eyes staring down cruelly at the room’s occupant.

Lady Halste was standing at the far end of the chamber. Or so it seemed. But after a moment Ursula realised Lady Halste’s feet were several inches off the ground and she was suspended by curling tendrils of energy. The magical force twisted around her legs and arms, passing through her flesh.

In front of her, spinning gently, Ulfshard hung in the air, blade pointing down over a nine-pointed star, the light of the pommel-stone dimmed and wavering.

Ursula gave a shriek and ran into the room.

‘Don’t break the…’ Ruprecht began, lunging after her, but it was too late. Ursula’s foot scuffed across one of the warding lines and red fire splashed into the air. The lines of flame flickered, dimmed and then disappeared.

‘Look out!’ bellowed Ruprecht, following Ursula into the room, hammer at the ready. Behind him, the clouds coalesced around the doors and slammed them shut, blocking out Khemen, who could be heard frantically beating on them.

The dark miasma split above their heads, separating into four distinct clouds that slid along the ceiling and down the walls. Spilling to the floor, they raised up, and glowing eyes appeared. The smoke formed long arms either side of a snake-like body, and claws of flame sprang into life. The inside of the room was like a furnace, and Ruprecht felt sweat dripping from him, but the blistering heat did not stop the chill feeling that crept along his spine.

Their smoke-bodies coiling and twisting, the ifreet advanced on the pair, their cruel hissing laughter sounding in their ears. Circling slowly, the daemons came closer and closer, and Ruprecht and Ursula were forced to stand back-to-back, turning also to keep them in sight.

With a sound like the crackle of an enormous bonfire, the spirit-creatures attacked, flying across the air, their claws blazing.

Ursula lashed out at an incorporeal hand with her sword, but the blade passed through without effect. The creature’s talons tore into her arm. There was no blood, no laceration, but burning pain flared through Ursula and her flesh blistered and peeled at the unholy creature’s touch.

Ruprecht ducked beneath the swipe of another claw, ineffectually trying to ward away the ifreet with the head of his hammer. Cursing, he tossed the weapon aside and wrenched free his necklace, thrusting the charms and amulets into the daemon’s face.

A piercing wail resounded around the chamber and the ifreet fled to the far corner of the room. Its retreat had left an opening and Ursula leapt through the gap towards Ulfshard. One of the ifreet sensed her plan and sped after her, wrapping its coils of smoke around her throat. The touch seared her inside, choking her, but she ignored the pain and dove forwards, her hand closing around the hilt of Ulfshard.

The pommel of the elven sword blazed into glorious life, filling the room with blue rays of light. Azure flames rippled up the length of the blade and Ursula swung Ulfshard at the creature that was grappling with her. The smoke ignited with blue fire, exploding outwards in a ring of flame, another agonised wail filling her ears.

The other daemons gave panicked shrieks as Ursula stalked across the chamber towards them, the glowing blade raised above her head. Runes and sigils on the walls crackled with energy as the creatures tried to escape, hurling them back with small storms of red lightning.

Swinging Ulfshard in a wide arc, she cut through two of the fire-daemons, banishing them back to their incorporeal realm. The last took no longer: trapped against the door, she thrust the elven sword between its fire-rimmed eyes, driving the blade into the wood of the door itself.

Ruprecht retrieved his hammer and ran over to Lady Halste. She was still floating in the grips of the magical bindings, her eyes glazed, mouth lolling stupidly.

‘Bring the sword here!’ he called desperately to Ursula, who was looking at Ulfshard as if seeing it for the first time. She stood there for a moment, dazed, until Ruprecht shouted her name again.

She walked up to Lady Halste and raised Ulfshard, preparing to cut through the daemonic tentacles. Before she could do so, the lady’s eyes flickered open and she flinched backwards from the blazing sword.

‘No!’ she hissed, throwing her arms up to protect herself, floating back out of reach of the magical sword. ‘Ursula, don’t!’

Ursula checked her blow and lowered Ulfshard, stepping after the retreating noblewoman.

‘Listen to me,’ Lady Halste told them between gritted teeth. ‘The daemon almost took me. It will be back! Use Ulfshard. Break the Tzakheein star! Finish the ritual!’

Ursula hesitated, unsure what to do. Ruprecht guessed the lady’s meaning and nodded at the nine-pointed star over which the sword had been hovering.

‘There,’ he told her, gesturing with his hammer. ‘Plunge the sword into the star.’

Ursula’s glance at the lady was answered with an emphatic nod, and Ursula turned, reversing Ulfshard so that she held it point downwards in both hands. Closing her eyes, she thrust the magical sword into the floor.

Nothing happened for a moment.

Then the sword exploded into a miniature blue sun, flinging Ursula and Ruprecht to the ground. In the sapphire light, an outline could be seen surrounding Lady Halste’s body like a wavering halo. It stretched up to the ceiling, a massive winged beast with four arms, its muscled body becoming a twin-tailed snake. Nine horns sprouted from its long, goat-like head, and it snarled, baring teeth each as long as a dagger.

The light from Ulfshard pulsed rhythmically and the shimmering daemon-form began to waver. Patches of blue light began to merge, burning away at the djinn’s essence. Spreading like a flame across paper, the energies of Ulfshard ate away at the daemon’s ethereal form as it writhed in desperation.

As the djinn disintegrated completely, the light from Ulfshard imploded in on itself, pulling back into the blade. It raced as a crackle of energy into the lines drawn on the floor, illuminating the tracery of interweaving figures. Almost faster than the eye could follow, sparks of power raced around the mystical diagram, converging on Lady Halste.

Ursula pulled herself to her knees but was knocked flat again as the energy collapsed into the floating noblewoman in a blinding flash. Lady Halste was hurled across the room, skidding across the boards until she thudded against the wall beneath the shuttered window.

No one moved. The floorboards smoked gently with thin grey wisps. Khemen’s thumping intruded on Ruprecht’s numbed ears. He heard Ursula moan, and pulled himself up so that he could see her. She lay on her back, her hands covering her eyes. Lady Halste lay immobile where she had been flung.

Using his hammer as a staff, Ruprecht pushed himself to his feet, and took an unsteady step forward. His entire body felt weak, his limbs drained of all strength. Ursula stirred, rolling to her side and gulping down a rasping breath. Her clothes were singed, and her skin was red. It was then that Ruprecht noticed wisps of smoke coming from his beard, and felt the rawness of his own flesh.

A laugh began to echo around the room. It was a chilling sound, full of scorn, and Ruprecht glanced around to find the source. It was coming from Lady Halste.

She floated upwards and tilted forwards until she was upright, an aura of power flowing from her skin. She landed gently on tiptoe. Her face was twisted in a cruel sneer, and her eyes had become balls of flickering white light. Her long hair waved around her head like a nest of vipers, whipping back and forth.

‘My dear Ruprecht, my dearest Ursula,’ Lady Halste said in a voice that resounded like metal scratching on stone. ‘I would be totally lost without you.’

Ursula uncovered her face and looked at the noblewoman. Crackling energy played around the enchantress’s fingertips.

‘Without you, I could never have completed the she’al akra,’ Halste continued. With a glance at the doors, they opened and Khemen stumbled in. ‘And the ever-faithful Khemen.’

The Arabian looked up at his mistress and his eyes widened in terror. He turned to flee, but Lady Halste’s voice stopped him before his first stride.

‘Leave and you die!’ she snarled. ‘Stay and you might yet prove useful.’

Khemen turned back and flung himself to the ground, laying prone in acquiescence. He began to babble in Arabian.

‘Too late for prayers, Khemen,’ Halste said with a wicked smile. ‘Too late for much of anything for all of you.’

Ruprecht took a faltering step forward, hammer raised, and Halste lashed out with her hand, bolts of white energy leaping from her fingertips. They struck Ruprecht in the chest, hurling him backwards to the floor, the hammer flying from his grasp.

‘For years I never believed it possible,’ Halste said, floating forward, her toes sliding across the floor. ‘My sorceries combined with the essence of djinn. I despaired, I really did, of ever seeing the days of my glory.’

‘What glory?’ said Ursula, hauling herself to her feet. ‘What could you have never done?’

‘What you see now,’ Halste replied, spreading her arms wide and spinning gently through the air until she faced them again. ‘They said I was too young, too inexperienced for the she’al akra. Well, I have proven them wrong. Oh, it might have gone awry at first, but now see me! Eleven years I have paid the price of my earlier failure. Eleven years that creature lived within me, a parasite on my life force. Now it is gone, I am free, and its power is mine to command.’

‘It was all a lie, after all,’ groaned Ruprecht. ‘You used us!’

‘Not at all, my dear,’ argued Lady Halste. ‘Much of it was, but not all of it. My name, well it certainly isn’t Halste. I am Jasmina el Al, of Copher. That’s in Araby, if you haven’t already guessed. That creature, that hideous thing, broke free during a summoning and invaded my spirit. So, yes, I was possessed, that part was true. I just didn’t tell you the part about needing the sword to kill the daemon, leaving me with its power.’

‘Is that what Gerhardt discovered? Is that why you killed him?’ demanded Ursula, tears welling in her eyes. ‘Murderer!’

‘No!’ Jasmina seemed quite shocked at the accusation. ‘It was the djinn that killed him, not I. The same as it was the djinn who gave Khemen the note summoning you. I could not control it all the time, and it has been trying to escape, to take its power with it. Though I lived with it inside me for eleven years, I could feel its own torment, confined within this mortal, well once-mortal, body. If you think I was desperate after eleven years, the djinn was willing to sacrifice itself to escape back to its realm. It was trying to attract attention to me. It would have seen us both slain so that it might escape this existence. Luckily, your appearance seems to have saved me in the end. If you hadn’t wielded Ulfshard I might never have regained control.

With a roar, Ruprecht leapt to his feet and bounded towards Halste. She spun and flung her arms forward, fingers splayed. Magical lightning erupted, coruscating across the man’s body, but he forged forwards. Halste snarled and bolts flashed from her eyes, smashing him from his feet. He lay in a crumpled heap, twitching spasmodically. A movement to her right swung her towards Ursula.

She was too late.

‘Have your sword!’ spat Ursula, plunging the blade of Ulfshard into Jasmina el Al’s chest, driving the blade through until it burst from her back and the hilt stopped against her breast. The enchantress lashed out instinctively, her daemon strength sending Ursula crashing to the floor. El Al dropped to her knees, eyes fixed on Ursula, burning with hatred. She stayed there for a moment and then fell sideways. The fire in her veins burned brightly. The energy consumed her flesh and a few seconds later Ulfshard clattered to the ground leaving a circle of ash where the sorceress had been. Its pommel-stone glowed fitfully.

Ursula struggled to her feet, feeling broken ribs grinding inside her, and staggered to Ruprecht. He was unconscious but alive. Sitting down next to him, Ursula laid her head on his chest and passed out.

CHAPTER SIX

RITUAL

Marienburg, Early Autumn 1711

Ursula felt a soft mattress under her back and a heavy blanket across her chest. Opening her eyes, she could see a white ceiling from which hung a simple, wax-stained chandelier. Her whole body ached and her skin felt as if it were on fire. Turning her head to look around, pain spasmed from her neck to her spine, and she shut her eyes and groaned aloud. She heard the shuffling of feet and the creak of a door opening.

Opening one eye, she saw a short woman leaning over the bed, her head cowled in a white hood. As she bent closer, she saw a pendant of Shallya hanging around her neck.

‘I can see you’re awake,’ the woman said in a clipped tone. ‘Don’t move too much, you’ll smear off the burn ointment.’

Ursula nodded gingerly and lay her head back on the soft pillow. Now that the priestess had mentioned it, she could feel the touch of the cooling lotion across her face and arms.

‘Ruprecht, my friend…’ Ursula said.

‘He is also alive, and he woke this morning, but he is sleeping again now,’ the priestess told her. ‘An unusual man, by any standards.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Ursula, wincing with pain as she sat up. There were six beds in the small whitewashed chamber. She could see the bulk of Ruprecht under the covers to her left. The bed to her right was empty, as were the three laid in a row on the opposite side of the ward. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘The count has asked that you be kept alone here in our temple for the time being, while you recover,’ the priestess said. She laid a hand on Ursula’s forehead and gently but insistently forced her head back onto he pillow. ‘You must rest. When you have regained your strength, you will be given the answers to your questions, I am sure.’

‘One thing,’ Ursula said as the sister of Shallya turned to leave. The priestess stopped and looked back at her. ‘Ulfshard. What happened to the sword?’

‘I do not know anything about a sword, I’m afraid,’ the sister told her. ‘You were brought to us with nothing but the burned rags you were found in.’

Ursula opened her mouth to speak again but closed it when the sister scowled and raised a finger to her lips. Without another word, the priestess walked out, quietly closing the door behind her.

Ursula lay there for a while staring at the ceiling. She couldn’t remember anything that had happened after the confrontation with Lady Halste. Jasmina el Al, she corrected herself, feeling bitter.

She tried to think what might have happened. There was the manservant, Khemen. And the sister had mentioned the count. Perhaps one of them had Ulfshard. Her mind was foggy with pain and the herbs that she had been fed by the priestesses, and she couldn’t think straight. Her mind still jumbled, Ursula fell into a fitful sleep.

When she next awoke, there were two armed guardsmen in the room standing either side of the door, dressed in half-plate armour and holding tall halberds. Their helmets were decorated with a yellow plume, and the blue clothing under their breastplates and greaves showed them to be members of the count’s own army. They steadfastly ignored her as she pushed herself up.

Her skin was red, peeling, and blistered in places. Her chest and stomach were tightly bound with bandages making it almost impossible for her to bend at the waist. When she tried, a stabbing pain in her lower chest reminded her that she had broken at least one rib in the fight against the Arabian enchantress.

Swinging her legs from under the covers, pain lanced through her and she gasped. She was dressed in a loose white robe, similar to those worn by the sisterhood, open at the back from the knees down. She lowered her feet to the tiled floor and hissed as she touched the cold stone. With another glance at the guards, she gingerly stood up.

Dizziness struck her but she managed to stay upright, steadying herself with a hand on the headboard of the bed. There was a narrow shuttered window at the far end of the room and she padded awkwardly between the beds and stood before it. She pulled at the shutters to open them, but they did not move. Only then did she notice the padlock that held them together. The nails that held the bar in place were shiny and new, proof that the lock had been only recently fitted.

‘They told me you woke up yesterday,’ she heard Ruprecht say, his voice cracked and quiet. Ursula spun around quickly and was struck by another dizzy spell. This time she could not stay upright and fell to her knees. One of the guards rushed forward. Dropping his halberd clattering on the floor, he knelt beside her.

‘You shouldn’t exert yourself, lady,’ he said, offering her a hand which she gratefully took. He was young, perhaps only a year or two older than she was, and had deep blue eyes under the rim of his helmet.

‘Thank you,’ she said as he lifted her to her feet. ‘What’s your name?’

The other soldier coughed pointedly and the guard darted his companion a dirty glance.

‘Hanser, lady,’ the soldier said, ignoring his comrade’s warning. ‘Hanser Feld.’

‘I’m Ursula, and you don’t have to call me lady,’ Ursula said, propping herself up on his shoulder. She looked at his face for a moment, thinking how youthful he looked.

‘No such welcome for your old comrade-in-arms then?’ said Ruprecht and Ursula gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth.

‘I’m not thinking straight, forgive me,’ Ursula said with a smile to Hanser. She let go of the soldier and tottered across the room to sit on the bed beside Ruprecht. The guardsman retrieved his halberd and took up his position by the door, casting a sour glance at the other sentry.

‘How are you feeling?’ Ursula said.

‘Burnt and sore,’ Ruprecht said with a rueful shake of his head.

‘Have they told you what happened yet?’ Ursula asked him and he shrugged, the pain of the gesture causing him to suck in a deep breath.

‘They haven’t told me anything except that the sword is in safe hands, whatever that means,’ Ruprecht said, laying a hand on Ursula’s knee and squeezing it affectionately. She winced at his touch as he inadvertently stretched the burnt skin on her legs and he snatched his hand away, the movement causing him to grit his teeth too.

‘I think we need to listen to the sisters’ advice and not do too much of anything,’ Ursula said with a smile and Ruprecht nodded in agreement.

There was a knock at the door, and the guard who had not been so welcoming opened it a crack and peered out. After assuring himself that the visitor was no threat, he stepped back and opened the door wide. The sister of Shallya whom Ursula had seen before stepped into the room. She was followed by a short man with dark, thinning hair. He was dressed in riding boots, breeches, and had a blue cloak thrown back across his shoulder. His face was plain, his eyes a little too close together for Ursula’s liking.

‘Sister Meriaud, are they fit for me to speak to them?’ he said in a thin, reedy voice.

Not replying directly, the priestess came forward, her eyebrows raised in obvious agitation.

‘How are you pair feeling this evening?’ she said, standing beside the bed. ‘Herr Gorstend is the count’s chancellor and would like to speak to you. Do you feel ready to talk?’

‘Yes,’ replied Ursula immediately, wanting to know what had transpired in the time they had been unconscious. ‘Yes, I think we can.’

Meriaud nodded, turned back to the chancellor and waved him into the room.

‘If you feel tired or unwell, then please call for me,’ she said to Ursula and Ruprecht. ‘And you’re not to tire them out either,’ she added with a frown for the benefit of Herr Gorstend. The two soldiers, at a glance from the chancellor, followed the priestess out of the room and the door closed with a click.

‘You must have many, many questions, I am quite sure,’ said Gorstend. ‘However, let me explain some of the events you are unaware of, and if you then still have questions, please feel free to ask them.’

‘Are those guards to protect us or keep us here?’ said Ruprecht.

‘Yes,’ said Gorstend with a nod.

‘Where’s Ulfshard?’ Ursula said, standing up and taking a step towards the chancellor, who stepped back from the swaying advance.

‘I will tell you in a moment,’ he said, waving her back to the bed. ‘If you will allow me to continue?’

‘Just tell us,’ said Ruprecht, leaning forward to tug at Ursula’s robe. She darted him a look and then with a sigh she sat back on the bed.

‘Good,’ said Gorstend, coming closer again. ‘As you are aware, your former employer, whom you knew as Lady Halste, was given finances by Count Luiten to recover the artefact you mention. After the incident in which you were involved, the Arabian servant, Khemen, brought the matter to the count’s guard. He was taken into custody for his involvement in this dark plot, you were brought here and the artefact was also taken somewhere safe.’

‘So the count has Ulfshard?’ said Ursula. ‘That’s the short answer.’

‘Yes and no,’ Gorstend said, running a hand through his thin hair. ‘He would like you, as a reward for your sacrifices and service, to present him with Ulfshard at a formal audience. It is in the keeping of his guard, under lock and key, until then.’

‘When?’ asked Ruprecht. ‘When do we have to perform this presentation?’

‘We have to give him Ulfshard, which he already has,’ said Ursula. ‘Why?’

‘When you are fit and well enough to do so, of course,’ said Gorstend with a smile. ‘You have both done very well, and the count wishes to express his gratitude in a public display. He has summoned all the nobles and knights to attend his court in ten days’ time. The sisters assure me this is adequate time for your recuperation. These things have to be done properly. The count can’t just suddenly start wearing the sword, can he? He has to be seen to receive it from the brave adventurers who recovered it for him.’

‘And the others who went on the expedition?’ said Ursula. ‘What do they get?’

‘Well, they were all paid upon ending their duties,’ Gorstend said. ‘However, I am sure the count will have no disagreement with a suggestion that a Roll of Honour be drawn up with their names on, and perhaps extra remuneration for their loyal services.’

‘You seem to be taking this whole matter very calmly,’ said Ruprecht. ‘Aren’t you worried that someone like Jasmina managed to perpetrate such an evil fraud in the count’s name? If it hadn’t been for us, she would have succeeded in her scheming and unleashed who knows what terror on the city!’

‘I am afraid that the count may seem foolish to entrust his future to this wicked woman,’ said Gorstend, clasping his fingers across his chest. ‘He was quite taken with the young lady and her ambitious plan. All is well that ends well, as they say, though, and, despite her evil intentions, thanks to your intervention Ulfshard will return to its rightful owner as the count had originally hoped.’

‘One other thing,’ said Ruprecht, pulling the handless stump of his left arm from under the covers and waving it at Gorstend. ‘When are you going to give me back my damn hand?’

After the splendours of Karak Norn, the count’s palace seemed ramshackle and gaudy. Ursula and Ruprecht were seated in a small wood-panelled chamber waiting for Gorstend to return and usher them into the count’s presence. The chairs they sat in were lumpy and overstuffed, and the walls were hung with portrait after portrait of Count Luiten in various guises and poses as statesman, general, knight, loving father, ship’s captain, hunter and, for some unknown reason, baker.

They shared the room with a few other dignitaries, who were clustered around the double doors leading to the count’s throne room, trying to hear what was going on beyond. Ursula’s first impression of the men had been of thin-faced, miserable looking moneylenders, with austere black breeches and shirts. After that, she hadn’t paid them much attention at all. She and Ruprecht had been given clothes befitting the occasion, and she glanced across to see Ruprecht rummaging in his crotch.

‘Just leave it alone,’ she whispered with a glance towards the nobles.

‘Damnable codpiece,’ Ruprecht said, shifting uncomfortably on the seat. ‘Whoever thought that making them out of rigid leather was a good idea should be taken out and hanged.’

He stopped his fidgeting and leant back, draping his left arm across the back of the chair. Spots of fresh oil could be seen leaking from his mechanical hand. The energy from Jasmina’s spell had fused it into a clenched fist, and it had taken the count’s most skilled smiths to get it working again. Or so Gorstend had said. Ruprecht had confided in Ursula the suspicion that they had taken it apart to study the dwarf workmanship. He had repeatedly complained that the thumb wasn’t gripping as well as it should.

The side door to the chamber opened and Gorstend walked in, resplendent in his yellow and blue robes of office which trailed behind him on the ground. A fur-trimmed collar almost swallowed his head and in his right hand he carried a large sceptre tipped with a ship made from gold. The nobles at the door dispersed quickly, pretending to look at the paintings on the walls.

With Gorstend was a burly man who walked with the bow-legged, rolling gate of a sailor. His bearded face was flushed as he argued with the chancellor.

‘I don’t bloody care what Lord Douwe says, the man’s never set foot on a ship other than to carry out an inspection in his whole life,’ the stranger was saying.

‘The count’s recent enterprise has quite drained the coffers,’ Gorstend said with an expressive shrug. ‘I sympathise with your cause, Captain Leerdamme, I really do. So does Count Luiter. But we cannot send the Marienburg navy out to chase down a few pirates just because you say they’re getting bolder.’

Leerdamme was about to reply when Gorstend hushed him with a raised hand. The captain silently fumed as the chancellor walked over to the doors. Looking over his shoulder, Gorstend waved the captain to seat himself. He sat down on the long couch next to Ruprecht.

‘Nice hand,’ the man said with a nod towards Ruprecht’s artificial appendage.

‘Dwarf work,’ Ruprecht said, bringing the hand over so that Leerdamme could see it more closely.

Ursula rolled her eyes and turned her attention to the chancellor, who was hovering around the door, an intent look on his face. She half-heard the sailor saying something that she recognised.

‘What did you say?’ she said, turning towards him, Ruprecht saying the very same words at that moment as well.

‘Sank some marauders from Fjaergardhold,’ Leerdamme said. ‘Evil swines, the lot of them.’

‘The Fjaergard?’ Ursula said again in disbelief. She looked at Ruprecht who raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you sure, captain?’

‘Yes, I’m blo… I’m very sure, lady,’ Leerdamme said, leaning forward. ‘A savage lot, and no mistaking. Slaughtered a whole village up on the Nordland coast, which is how I came to know them. Never seen any of them so bold in my life, but I ran them aground. They’ll not be going back home from this raid. Deserved everything they got, especially that bastard captain of theirs, excusing my language, lady.’

‘Why so?’ asked Ruprecht. ‘What’s so special about this Norscan?’

‘Well, I didn’t see him clearly myself, but another captain saw him as clear as the sky,’ Leerdamme said. ‘No more than a hundred yards from the cur at one point. This marauder chief, he stands there on his longship pointing a sword at this captain and laughing. A knight’s sword if you believe that! The man said he’d never seen a Norseman like him, tall as a horse, with a shock of dark hair and wearing armour stolen from a knight, no less! Bold as brass, he was.’

Ruprecht and Ursula exchanged a glance.

‘A southern-looking man, with dark hair, in knight’s armour?’ Ursula said slowly. ‘With the Fjaergard?’

‘That’s right!’ said Leerdamme, standing up. ‘Not a word of a lie, I swear it! You pair look like I’ve walked over your grave and swore at your mother.’

A trumpet sounded from beyond the doors. Gorstend swung them open and stepped through.

‘My count, barons, knights and ladies,’ he declared in a voice more expansive than one might have expected of someone with such small stature. ‘It is the honour of my post and of Marienburg as a whole to introduce you to two of the count’s most loyal and fine servants!’

He turned and waved Ruprecht and Ursula to the door. The nobles and Leerdamme drew themselves up into two files behind them.

Another fanfare echoed from the chamber beyond.

‘May I present Lord Ruprecht Steelhand and Lady Ursula Silverblade!’ he said, his voice reaching a bellowing crescendo. Ursula stifled a giggle at the pretentious titles, and Ruprecht glared dangerously at the chancellor’s back. ‘In you go,’ Gorstend whispered, stepping out of their path and waving them in with his sceptre.

‘Silverblade?’ whispered Ursula, still trying not to laugh.

‘Shush,’ Ruprecht said out of the corner of his mouth. ‘We’ll just present him with the sword, make a pretty speech or two and then leave them to it.’

Feeling the sense of occasion, they stepped out together, pacing slowly through the door. The chamber beyond was low and long, lit by torches held in sconces along the walls. A long blue carpet ran across the flagstones from the doorway up to the throne. The hundreds of assembled nobles crowded and jostled each other, standing a little back from the carpet’s edge to look at the new arrivals.

Stepping forward as regally as they could, Ruprecht and Ursula walked between the civilised scrum erupting on either side of them. Whispered comments floated to their ears.

‘His hand, see, his hand is metal.’

‘I thought she would have been taller.’

‘I wish my hair was that nice.’

‘He hasn’t even trimmed his beard, not very good show for a lord.’

The two of them kept their attention fixed ahead, looking at Count Luiten. He was slouched in his throne, the back of which rose up twice the height of man, emblazoned with a relief of the serpentine sea-god Manaan entwined around a castle tower, his trident raised above his head.

The count himself was short and fat, his robes gathered in heavy folds in his lap, revealing pallid ankles and shins. Piggy eyes glinted at them from beneath Luiten’s sweating brow, and the count reached up a hand and swept perspiration from his balding scalp, wiping his hand on the upholstered arm of the throne.

As the two approached, he pushed himself huffing to his feet and waddled forwards, extending a beringed hand. Ursula stopped in front of the count and bent to one knee. Leaning forward she kissed the ruby on his middle finger and swiftly retreated. Ruprecht duplicated the gesture, his scowl hidden from view as he stooped.

Where’s the sword, Ursula thought? We can’t give him the sword if we don’t have it.

As if mentally summoned, Gorstend appeared at Ursula’s elbow, the crown of Marbad in one hand. In the other he held a long sheathed sword. The scabbard was made from black leather bound with gold wire and studded with circles of silver. It would have looked refined and dignified had it not been for the addition of three large rubies and a sapphire down its length, looking lustreless and shoddy compared to the gently glowing hilt-stone of the magical sword within.

Ruprecht noticed the chancellor and, in his nervous agitation, hastily snatched Ulfshard from his hands and thrust it towards the count.

‘Lord Ruprecht Steelhand presents you with the heirloom of your position, the sword Ulfshard!’ said Gorstend, his voice echoing out over the now-silent hall.

Luiten smiled and stepped forward, the pudgy fingers of his left hand stretching to close around the scabbard. Pulling the sheath to his chest, he grasped the exposed hilt. With an explosive exhalation, his cheeks reddening, Count Luiten pulled free Ulfshard and waved it above his head.

There was a desultory cheer and some clapping, but a frown creased Luiten’s face. Lowering the sword, he looked at the dimly flickering pommel-stone and dull sheen to the blade. With a shrug that was almost hidden by his heavy robes, he lifted the sword again, a drip of sweat falling from his greasy palm.

‘Lost in battle, and returned again,’ Luiten said, stepping forwards and forcing Ruprecht and Ursula to step aside lest he walk into them. He strode down the carpet as he spoke. ‘Glorious Ulfshard, blade of Marbad, bane of the northmen. Long we have quested for its return. Great has been the expense to restore this wondrous prize to Marienburg.’

He stopped between the two crowding groups, and passed the sword slowly in front of them so that they could see it properly.

‘Ulfshard, symbol of the rulership of the Wasteland, sign of the gods’ vindication of my reign,’ Luiten continued, licking the sweat from his top lip. ‘Blessed by their benediction, my right to rule confirmed, today marks the beginning of a new era for myself and for Marienburg.’

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

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

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

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

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

She could not allow it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘No woman will ever command me!’

‘Give me the sword then, I’ll lead the army!’

‘No true man here would follow a woman!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I told you you’d get in bloody trouble,’ he said.

CHAPTER SEVEN

AWAKENING

Marienburg, Early autumn 1711

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

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

‘I know,’ said Kurt. ‘Let him worry what I will say.’

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

Kurt spat into the mud and turned on the shaman.

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

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

Kurt followed his gaze and snorted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Nor I,’ said Kurt with a smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The pyre was a celebration of their lives, not a commiseration of their deaths. The flames and smoke would carry their spirits up to the gods in the north of the world, and there they would tell their tales and share their stories with the other great warriors of history.

The honour was not only for those who had died so recently on this shore – the like of Lina Half-wolf, Snarri Goldtooth and Kothi Silvercraft – but for the others who had given their lives for the glory of the tribe: Jarlen and his ship’s crew who had been sunk by the bone giant of King Nephyphys; Aelfir of the Longaxe who had been slain by the tomb guards of the undead city; Aethwine the Viper who had succumbed to fever on the journey back. All of them were remembered here, their names chanted over the timbers of the pyre by Jakob the night before, so that their spirits might find their way home.

With a nod from Kurt, Bjordrin brought a pitch-soaked torch forward and hurled it onto the pyre. The logs caught alight quickly and the flames spread to the second pyre. The Norse raised their weapons and shields and gave a great shout into the sky, banging their weapons together, stamping and yelling to attract the attention of the gods. Kurt raised his own voice in a drawn out bellow, his sword bursting into flames in imitation of the conflagration in front of him.

For a long while they stood there, calling to the gods, yelling the praises of those who had died, until the flames reached high into the air and black smoke filled the fjord. Only then, when the signal fires to the gods could be seen for many miles, did they cease their clamouring, giving final nods of respect to the departed and filing away.

Kurt galloped up beside Bjordrin as he climbed up the hilly side of the fjord to where the Sneirkin waited for their new masters.

‘We will have to push hard to reach home before winter catches us,’ said Kurt, reining in his horse to a walk.

‘We will,’ said Bjordrin. ‘It reminds me of a long march almost two years ago.’

‘When a brash Sutenmjar, fresh to the eyes of the gods, walked alongside you,’ said Kurt with a laugh. ‘Yes, it will be as hard as that trek, perhaps harder. This time you return not only with a Chosen and his shaman, but with the wealth of a dead king!’

‘The star of the Fjaergard has risen in the sky since your coming,’ said Bjordrin. ‘I think perhaps I will talk to Hrolfgar when we return.’

‘About what?’ asked Kurt.

Bjordrin waved an arm to take in the line of Sneirkin filing slowly eastwards and the treasure-carts that rumbled along in their midst.

‘No longer the southern pup, I think,’ said Bjordrin. ‘I think now you have become the southern wolf.’

‘Kurt Sutenvulf,’ said Kurt quietly. He laughed and leaned over to clap Bjordrin on the shoulder. ‘I like it! Soon the Sutenvulf will return to the Lands of the Dead with a hundred ships and thousands of lusty, bloodthirsty warriors. Let the old kings awake! Let them hear my name. Kurt Sutenvulf!’

Ten days into the march, the Norse had made good progress. The last vestiges of summer were still clinging on and the weather had stayed fine for them, but Kurt knew that they were barely a fifth of the way to Fjaergard and the Norscan winter fell quickly and savagely.

Here in the west of the land, the tribes were sparse and they had not encountered another soul since leaving Sneirkinhold. Four-legged dangers were scarce as well, scared by the number of men and women who were travelling. There had been many wolf tracks, the spoor of bears, and even signs of other, less natural, creatures. So far, the only trouble had been the treasure wagons.

Laden with gold and gems, the carts were heavy and, though the teams pulling them were changed frequently, the mountainous terrain made it sometimes impossible for the column to continue without lightening the load to distribute amongst the Fjaergard and Sneirkin.

This had led to problems of its own, as individuals from both tribes tried to appropriate the odd coin, cup or ring about their person, leading to fighting between the warriors. One of the Sneirkin had been killed in a brawl over a golden necklace.

All the while, Kurt had the growing suspicion that there would be more fighting to be done before they were home. The presence of so much treasure would be too much of a lure for any Norseman they encountered, whether he was a solitary hunter, or a tribal chief like Gafnir.

Another worry were the Sneirkin themselves. Though most of them seemed fatalistic about their new life, and some were even glad to be part of such an obviously powerful and rich tribe, there were those who were less content. Gafnir’s brothers, Gerin and Gird, were particularly troublesome and never missed an opportunity to point out their displeasure at being slaves. They would always quieten when Kurt himself approached, but refused to obey anyone else and would not share the burden of pulling the treasure carts or carrying their own belongings.

Though they had brought plenty of supplies from Sneirkinhold, Kurt knew that it would not last the thirty or more days still left on their journey. Soon they would have to send out hunting parties to kill deer, bear or woolly Norscan goats, and that would slow their progress even further. Not only that, but he would have to trust the Sneirkin hunters because only a few of his own men and women were skilled trackers and trappers.

That night, he confronted Bjordrin with his worries as they were seated by the campfire. Jakob was curled up behind them, his furs bundled up to make a pillow on the rocky ground.

‘Free men work harder than slaves,’ said Bjordrin.

‘But can I trust them not to try and take over?’ said Kurt, using a long branch to poke at the fire.

‘Make Gerin and Gird your blood brothers,’ said Bjordrin, pulling a stopper from an ale jug and swigging some of the contents. He passed the jug to Kurt. ‘Make them part of the Fjaergard and they will share in our future glories.’

‘And our treasure,’ said Jakob, sitting up, lips curled in a sneer. ‘What was the point of defeating them if we’re just going to give them the gold anyway?’

‘He has a point,’ said Kurt, looking at Bjordrin and taking a draught of ale. The thick liquid warmed his throat against the chill night. ‘And do you really think they will accept?’

‘They’ll be Fjaergard, the treasure will still belong to the tribe,’ Bjordrin said, tossing a handful of sticks onto the fire and looking out over the sleeping camp. ‘We won’t lose any of it at all.’

Kurt passed back the ale and sat thinking for a moment.

‘We are bound to meet other tribes before we reach home,’ he said. ‘Do we have to fight them all, or buy them all off?’

‘If we take the Sneirkin as bondsmen, and Gird and Gerin become your kin, then other tribes are less of a threat,’ Bjordrin said. ‘It was only because there were so few of us that Gafnir tried to take some of the treasure.’

‘Yes, and I’m sure he wouldn’t have let us simply walk away with the rest,’ said Jakob. ‘He might have let us leave, tradition demands that he cannot murder us when he has extended us hospitality. But once we left the village, he would have been after us like a hound. If you release the Sneirkin from bondage and make the brothers part of our tribe, Gerin and Gird will have to keep the others in line. It’ll be in their own interest, if nothing else’

Bjordrin nodded in agreement.

‘Tell me how I make them blood brothers,’ said Kurt.

The ceremony, like most Norse rituals, was short and to the point. The following night, before the evening’s meal, Kurt gathered the Sneirkin together in front of the main fire. In his hand he held a branch, and he walked between the assembled Norse, touching it to each of them on the shoulder. After he had done this, he walked back to the fire. Raising the branch over his head, he snapped it in two and tossed the parts on to the fire.

‘Bondsmen no more,’ said Kurt, seeing the smiles and happy nods of the Sneirkin. ‘Of the Fjaergard you are now.’

‘Fjaergard,’ the Norsemen chorused softly before turning away and readying themselves for the meal.

Jakob led Kurt to Gird and Gerin as they sat with their closest comrades, sharpening their weapons. Without a word, Kurt held out his right hand and Jakob drew his knife across the palm. Spitting into the blood that welled from the cut, Kurt extended his hand towards Gerin. The Norseman looked surprised for a moment and glanced at his older brother. Gird studied Kurt’s face for a moment and then nodded. Standing, Gerin rubbed the sweat from his hands and extended his own hand for Jakob to slice. Spitting into his own blood, he grabbed Kurt’s hand and the two of them stood there, their blood mingling, binding them as kin.

Kurt repeated the ritual with Gird, and the old warrior smiled and slapped the Chosen on the shoulder.

‘You are a wise man, Sutenvulf,’ Gird said. ‘I am proud to become Fjaergard, and we will bring honour to the tribe and glory to your saga.’

Gerin was less enthusiastic and turned away and sat with his warriors, his back to Kurt.

‘Do not mind him,’ said Gird as Kurt’s hand moved to his sword hilt. ‘He and Gafnir were close. He missed our brother.’

‘And you do not?’ said Jakob, sheathing his knife.

‘Of course, he is my brother,’ said Gird. ‘But he was also stupid and bragged too much. He said that the gods favoured him, and killed our uncle who was chieftain before him. I think that perhaps the gods did not agree. Our tribe has not fared well these last three years. A storm swept in this summer, from a clear sky, and sunk our ships at anchor. Then our mother, who was touched with the sight of the gods, died the next day. And now they send you to us, Sutenvulf. I know when the gods speak, and I listen. It is by their will that we are with you today.’

‘It is,’ said Kurt. ‘Next summer, you shall sail with me to a land where dead kings stir in their tombs, and the poorest man was buried with a chieftain’s gold. We will empty their treasure chambers, destroy their soulless warriors and return in glory!’

‘That is good to hear,’ said Gird with a short laugh. ‘I feared my grandchildren would hear the saga of how great a fisherman I have become!’

Another seven days of marching brought them over a high mountain pass and down into a long valley beyond. From their vantage point, Kurt could see the glistening waters of a fjord at the end of the valley, and a large town built along the coast. Several ships lay in the harbour. As he sat there astride his horse, his followers walking through the icy mud, he caught sight of Bjordrin and waved him over.

‘We’ll not be walking for much longer, my friend,’ said Kurt, pointing to the ships.

‘Once more the gods show their favour of Kurt Sutenvulf,’ Bjordrin said with a smile. ‘With a swift wind and the gods’ will, we shall be in Fjaergardhold before ten more days and nights.’

‘If you can get the ships,’ said Gerin, overhearing their conversation and breaking from the column. ‘That is no small tribe there.’

‘I will find a way,’ said Kurt, kicking his heels into the horse’s flanks and trotting off.

Gerin looked at Bjordrin with raised eyebrows.

‘Is he always this confident?’ asked Gerin.

‘Why shouldn’t he be?’ said Bjordrin, heading off. Gerin fell into step beside him.

‘Is it true that you fought an army of warriors from their graves to take this treasure?’ said Gerin.

‘Yes,’ said Bjordrin with a scowl. ‘We barely escaped at all.’

‘And you mean to return?’ said Gerin, shaking his head with incredulity.

‘Yes,’ Bjordrin said. ‘There is more gold in that one dead city than in all the towns and villages of the coast that you could raid.’

‘What will we do with all of that wealth?’ asked Gerin, scratching his head through his greying hair.

‘I don’t know,’ said Bjordrin. ‘But I’m going to make sure I enjoy finding out.’

Gerin nodded in appreciation, his thoughts wandering into fanciful dreams.

An army awaited them on the approach to the port, spread out before its high stone walls. Horsemen carrying wickedly tipped spears cantered back and forth behind a long shieldwall, and archers skulked at the ends of the line, arrows knocked to their bowstrings. Warhounds snarled and howled on their chain leashes as their handlers fought to keep the beasts under control. Drums beat continuously and shining totems of iron and silver were hoisted above the line.

Either side of Kurt, the Fjaergard, both old and new, spread out to face the enemy. They seemed pitifully few compared to the army arrayed against them. Behind the warriors, the older women and children took shelter with the treasure wagons. Around Kurt stood Jakob, Bjordrin, Gerin, Gird, and a few other of the most hardened warriors under his command. His horse stepping energetically to and fro, Kurt leaned down to talk to his companions.

‘Any suggestions?’ he said, receiving a gasp from Jakob in reply.

‘You don’t have a plan?’ said the shaman holding his hands to his head in despair. ‘I thought you had something in mind.’

Kurt pursed his lips and shook his head.

‘I hoped something would occur to me,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to do this the traditional way.’

‘Look,’ said Gerin, gesturing towards the enemy line with his shield. A small group was walking forward, one of them bearing an enormous banner hung with chains and skulls. ‘I think perhaps they mean to talk first.’

‘I told you something might happen,’ said Kurt, his voice cheerful.

Nudging his horse forward, he led the party across the open ground between the two forces. As they approached the other group, Kurt could see there were four of them. One warrior struggled forward under the weight of the standard, which Kurt could see was fashioned in the likeness of gigantic rune. At its centre was a circle, and from this an arrow jutted out to the top-right. Another bar projected from the bottom-left, ending in a crescent pointing away from the circle.

‘The sign of Slearg,’ said Jakob, nervously fumbling with the runestone pouch at his belt.

Two of the others, twins it seemed, were dressed in robes of white fur, their long blond hair hung in gold-clasped braids over their shoulders. Their arms were bare and they wore jewel-studded armbands around their thick biceps. They each carried a staff tipped with the same symbol as the one on the banner. Kurt could feel the power emanating from the two shamans and glanced at Jakob. Jakob shook his head and avoided Kurt’s gaze.

‘Wretch,’ said Kurt, looking at the other band’s leader.

He was not much taller than the others, but was as broad as two men, his bare chest massively muscled, with shoulders like an ox. He was dressed in a black leather kilt, his feet bare, and from his flesh hung heavy golden chains that pulled at his skin. He carried a long, spiked mace in each hand, each as large as a man’s head.

‘He is also a Chosen,’ said Jakob, and the others groaned in dismay.

‘I know he is,’ said Kurt, stopping ten paces from the other group and dismounting. It was all a matter of a short formality now. Two champions faced each other, there was no other way to resolve this except for single combat. Kurt was fatalistic about the turn of events. If the gods wished him to win, he would. If not, he would not know pain for long.

‘You should have a banner as well,’ said Gerin, and Kurt looked at him.

‘Yes, I should,’ said Kurt with a smile and a nod. ‘I’ll have some of the gold melted down when we get back.’

Tossing the reins to Jakob, Kurt strode forwards. The other Chosen advanced as well, and their two parties trailed behind them except Jakob who hung back, holding on to the reins of Kurt’s horse, looking ready to bolt in an instant. Bjordrin stood to Kurt’s right and the two brothers, Gerin and Gird, to his left. They looked each other up and down.

The two Chosen stood there for a long while, staring each other in the eye, searching for a sign of weakness.

‘Do you think you can take him?’ said Bjordrin, leaning close to whisper to Kurt.

‘We’ll know soon enough,’ Kurt said, drawing his sword.

‘This will be settled quickly,’ Kurt heard Gerin say.

The enemy champion stepped forward and raised his twin maces above his head, the chains that pierced his flesh jangling loudly.

‘I am Narthur, marked by Slaneir, champion of Slangothold,’ the other Chosen said, his voice a deep rumble. ‘What is the meaning of you bringing this warhird to our lands?’

‘I am the Sutenvulf, favoured of all the gods, Chosen of the Fjaergard,’ replied Kurt, raising his sword above his head in both hands. ‘And I mean to take your ships.’

‘Kurt!’ shouted Bjordrin, leaping between the two champions.

Kurt turned his head to see Gird stepping towards him, his axe swept back for a blow, his brother leaping forward.

Gird’s axe swung down and Gerin stumbled, the dagger aimed for Kurt’s back falling from his fingers as his brother’s blade bit into his side. Bjordrin leaped forward with his own blade aimed at the traitor’s neck, but Kurt intercepted the blow on his sword. Kurt looked down at Gerin, who lay in a spreading patch of his own blood, fingers grasping for the handle of his knife. Kurt’s foot crushed the man’s hand as the Chosen warrior leaned forward.

‘When we are done,’ said Kurt, ‘your death will be slow and painful. Each scream shall be a dedication to the gods, each blood drop an apology for your lack of belief in me.’

The Chosen looked at Gird, eyes narrowed. Gird threw down his axe and held up his hand.

‘My brother is a liar and a coward,’ said Gird. ‘He told me he meant to murder you, but I did not agree. I refused to help him and tried to persuade him otherwise, I swear to the gods.’

Kurt turned back to Narthur and shrugged.

‘I’m sorry for the interruption,’ said Kurt with a look of exasperation. ‘If you’re ready, I can kill you now.’

‘Kill me?’ laughed Narthur. ‘Why would you want to kill me?’

‘I need your ships so that we can get home,’ said Kurt with a frown.

Narthur laughed even louder, and turned to point at his army, indicating each of the banners in turn.

‘Jolnir of the Skaerlings,’ he said. ‘Gothir of the Bearsonlings. Undar of the Hathens.’

‘I have to kill all of you?’ said Kurt, with an uncertain glance at the other champions waiting in the shield wall.

Narthur was now laughing so much, Kurt was feeling a little ridiculous. The champion of the Slangot fought to control himself, and managed to reduce his mirth to an occasional snort. Tears ran down his reddened cheeks.

‘Where have you been?’ said Narthur. ‘We’re gathering here to take on the southerners, and you come to pick a fight with us? You’re a fool!’

‘Southerners?’ said Kurt, utterly bemused. ‘What southerners?’

CHAPTER EIGHT

HOMEWARDS

Norsca, Autumn 1711

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now Ursula hoped she would change that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wanted them to be afraid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What do you mean?’ she said.

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

Ursula thought about it for only a short while.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They had taken Kurt from her.

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

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

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

‘Well, it’s started then,’ said Ruprecht.

Ursula smiled grimly and nodded.

CHAPTER NINE

DARK BEGINNING

Coast of Norsca, Autumn 1711

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Thank you,’ said Kurt, retrieving his drinking horn and lifting it in appreciation.

‘Who said he was talking about you?’ said Narthur with a grin. His face grew serious. ‘You have no ship, but I would be honoured if Kurt Sutenvolf of the Fjaergard would travel on my kingship when we leave tomorrow.’

‘I accept your offer and swear that you will never need fear the enemy while I and my best warriors are with you,’ said Kurt.

‘You look confident,’ said Undar, ‘but it is many years, a generation or more, since anyone here has seen the like of this enemy. They have ships and soldiers that are more than a match for any single tribe, and they sail with a purpose.’

‘These are men of my old homeland,’ said Kurt. ‘They have little stomach for fighting. In truth, it is probably no more than a display of strength by one of the nobles, to show his rivals the power he wields. The Empire is no threat. It is a divided land, with its leaders at each other’s throats, and their armies spilling the blood of their countrymen in meaningless feuds. Their division is their weakness, and the time is ripe for us to reap the harvest.’

‘What will you do?’ asked Undar.

‘We will crush these impetuous sailors and soldiers and scatter their bodies on the water as a tribute to the gods,’ said Kurt, raising his ale to the skies in a toast to the powers of the north. ‘We will leave a few alive and take them back to their gods-forsaken homes to show that they do not have the strength to face the Norse.’

‘I like this plan!’ said Jolnir. ‘And then what, Sutenvolf?’

‘And then back to the Lands of the Dead,’ said Kurt. ‘There will be a freigattur the like of which our great-grandchildren will sing songs about, and we will sail south and the oceans themselves will be terrified of our fleet. If the dead kings rise from their tombs, we will slay them. Their legions may march forth but we will destroy them. All the wealth of Nehekhara will be ours for the taking! What of the Empire then? Their stone castles will be hovels next to the glorious golden palaces of Norsca. Their cannons and muskets will be as bee stings compared to the carnage our shamans can wreak after we have heaped the altars of the gods with the treasures of our conquests!’

‘You think this could come to pass?’ asked Undar, eyes glittering.

‘I promise it!’ said Kurt.

‘Then let us celebrate the will of the gods tonight, and the saga of the sheep who learned to howl,’ said Narthur, gesturing with a wave of his arm to the army camped outside Slangothold. ‘Tomorrow we set sail, heralds of the age of gold!’

The champions clashed their drinking horns together and drank deeply in honour of the gods and their coming victory.

The next morning, just after dawn, Kurt woke with a sore head. His sour disposition soon lightened as he realised that within days, he would be back in Fjaergard, where his son and wife were waiting for him. He savoured the thought.

He also relished the prospect of his triumphant return, the look on the faces of those who had not followed him. The doubters would regret their misgivings, as he and his warband returned in glory, with riches beyond anything the Fjaergard had ever seen before.

He would give half the gold to Hrolfgar, he decided, as reward for the chieftain’s faith in him. The winter would be spent in celebration and preparation, and next summer, the season of raiding, his next great endeavour would begin.

All-in-all, Kurt had many reasons to be cheerful.

There was, however, one other matter he had to attend to. Leaving the Fjaergard camp, he entered Slangothold through its massive wooden gates and made his way to the long hall at the centre of the town. Narthur’s closest warriors, his own warband, lounged on the steps that led up to the large building, blurry-eyed and aching from the previous night’s festivities. They eyed Kurt suspiciously. A few of them drew their weapons, but they let him pass.

Inside, the long hall was dark, the light from the doors stretching only a few yards into the dim interior. Loud snoring could be heard from the far end of the hall and Kurt picked his way toward the sound past the barrels, sleeping forms and rows of round tables. The air was thick with pungent smoke, which made Kurt’s head spin as he breathed it.

In the dim light that came from the embers of the firepit, Kurt could see Narthur lying draped over his high chair, four naked women clustered around him. His chest rose and fell with each heavy snore, causing the chains piercing his flesh to rattle heavily. One of the women turned over and moaned lightly in her sleep, stroking a chain that had fallen across her legs.

Narthur opened one eye and peered sleepily at Kurt.

‘I see your tributes to Slearg were great last night,’ said Kurt, looking at the women. Narthur grinned, opened both eyes and pushed himself upright, toppling the wenches to the floor. They writhed dreamily in the straw, smiling in their sleep.

‘Slaneir was bountiful with his gifts, yes,’ said Narthur, standing up. He stepped past Kurt to where a barrel was placed next to one of the tables. He ducked his head inside and then brought it up, spraying red liquid across the floor. Kurt smelt the distinctive scent of wine.

‘There is nowhere in Norsca you could grow grapes,’ Kurt said, stepping forward and cupping his hand into the wine. He drank it, savouring the deep, rich taste. It had been a long while since he had tasted wine, and two years of drinking the strong, sour ale of the Norse. He enjoyed again the blend of tastes and fragrances.

‘Yes, the horsemen were very kind with their gifts,’ said Narthur. He ducked his head back into the wine barrel and took another draught. ‘I find it very refreshing in the morning.’

‘You raided Bretonnia?’ said Kurt. Narthur frowned, not understanding the word. ‘The lands south of the Empire, with knights who wear great crests upon their helms and horses draped in coloured livery.’

‘Yes, I went far south this summer,’ said Narthur. ‘I thought it would make a change from the coastal villages of the Empire.’

‘I have never been there,’ said Kurt. ‘Perhaps next year when we return from Araby.’

Narthur smiled.

‘We should prepare to leave,’ said the champion of the Slangot. ‘The tide will be turning soon.’

Narthur looked at Kurt and then slapped his forehead in realisation.

‘Of course,’ Narthur said. ‘There is something you have to do first. I’ll have him brought to the beach, and I will see you there.’

‘Thank you,’ said Kurt, turning and walking back along the hall. Narthur called out to him as he reached the doors.

‘What are you planning to do with him?’ asked Narthur.

Kurt laughed and turned back to face the champion.

‘I’m going to follow his own advice,’ he said. ‘You’ll see for yourself later, I think you’ll enjoy it.’

Kurt stood on the beach with Bjordrin, Gird, Narthur and Undar. The others had boarded the ships and were beginning to row out along the fjord. In front of them, hands bound behind his back, his face blackened and bruised, lay Gerin. The traitor stared up at Kurt with hateful eyes then turned his head and spat at Gird.

‘You betray your people to this southern scum!’ said Gerin. He tried to stand up, but a kick from Narthur sent him reeling back to the ground.

‘You betrayed us,’ said Gird. ‘Gafnir should have never listened to you. It was you who told him to demand the gold that set us against the Fjaergard in the first place.’

‘It was our right!’ said Gerin. ‘You cannot deny that.’

‘And it is the Sutenvolf’s right, by his conquest of us, to be our lord,’ said Gird. ‘He killed Gafnir fairly, and slaughtered more than thirty of our warriors. What did you expect him to do? Forgive us for our insolence?’

‘It was you who spoke of killing him as we marched,’ said Gerin, and Gird nodded and shrugged.

‘Yes I did,’ said Gird. ‘But not after we became blood-brothers, not after he became our kin and we shared in his glory.’

‘He bought you off,’ said Gerin. ‘I did not think the loyalty of the Sneirkin could be bought.’

‘At first my loyalty was bought, I admit that,’ said Gird, crouching down beside his brother. ‘But I have realised that he is the leader I wish Gafnir could have been. I am proud to be the companion of the Sutenvolf, and one of his favoured Fjaergard. He has earned his tribe much honour, and I will earn honour and glory with him in the future.’

Gerin did not reply, and turned his head away. Gird stood and looked at Kurt.

‘What is your wish?’ said Gird.

‘He is your brother, your blood shares his shame,’ said Jakob, stepping forward with a sour glance at Kurt. ‘As blood-brothers of Kurt, his blood now also shares your dishonour for the cowardly attack on him. Your words are pleasing to our Chosen, but the shame must be absolved by the letting of that blood.’

Gird looked fearful, and turned and looked at Bjordrin in appeal.

‘I understand that my family has brought this shame upon us all, but the crime was not mine,’ said Gird. ‘I wish to serve with the Fjaergard, not to die for the Sneirkin.’

‘It is not the letting of your blood that I want,’ said Kurt, looking down at Gerin with a savage grin.

The salty wind was strong as the kingship sliced through the waves out of the mouth of the fjord and into the Sea of Claws. Kurt stood at the prow of the ship, as he had become accustomed to doing on his long voyage south and back, and gazed out at the horizon towards the rising sun. Three days, perhaps four days, away lay Fjaergardhold. He turned and smiled at Gird, who was stood a little behind him.

Gird was spattered with blood across his face, chest and arms, and it dripped down onto the deck of the ship. His hair was matted with gore. He had a long pole braced against his foot, resting against his shoulder, with a crosstree tied at the top with thick iron chain. The bloodied skeleton of Gerin, torn flesh and ragged skin still hanging in tatters from the bones, was tied to the banner pole with knotted straps, his face still wearing the same look of agony and terror that it had when he had died. In the ravaged eye sockets, two fist-sized rubies glittered, taken from the haul of Nehekharan treasure.

Kurt thought it a magnificent banner, and was sure that Gird would be proud to carry it for him in battle.

For three days they sailed eastwards, with no sign of the Imperial ships. On the morning of the fifth day they were joined by two more longships, crewed by the Thurskins. They told Kurt and the other Chosen that they had seen the enemy fleet two days before, also heading eastwards. Bjordrin guessed that they were heading to the Kislev port of Erengrad at the far eastern tip of the Sea of Claws.

It was decided that they would call in to Fjaergardhold, for Kurt and Bjordrin to speak with Hrolfgar and gather the rest of the tribe’s warriors. Kurt was pleased: by dawn the next day he would be home after his long journey. He could offload his hoard of treasure, see Heldred and Anyata and then lead the other warriors in the pursuit of the Imperial force.

He spent the rest of the day pacing nervously back and forth across the deck of the kingship. Narthur left him alone, but just after midday, Jakob interrupted his excited contemplation.

‘There is something you must think about,’ Jakob said, gesturing for Kurt to follow him to the side of the ship, out of earshot of any of the other Fjaergard.

‘What is it?’ asked Kurt. ‘You look worried.’

‘What is different about you and the other champions of the gods who sail with us?’ said Jakob.

‘There are lots of differences,’ said Kurt.

‘But there is one thing they all have in common that you do not,’ said Jakob. ‘They are all chieftains of their tribes.’

‘Are you suggesting that I usurp Hrolfgar?’ said Kurt with a frown. ‘It feels like betrayal to me.’

‘It is not betrayal,’ said Jakob, leaning over the side of the ship and spitting into the foaming waves below. ‘Your sense of loyalty is still that of the Empire.’

‘Hrolfgar is chieftain of the Fjaergard,’ said Kurt. ‘I am the Chosen, sent by the gods to protect him as much as the other members of the tribe.’

‘And when we arrive tomorrow, what do you expect to find?’ said Jakob. ‘A cheering welcome?’

‘What do you mean?’ said Kurt, grabbing Jakob by the shoulder and turning him so that he could look the shaman straight in the eye. ‘What are you implying?’

‘You saw how uncertain, how timid Hrolfgar was before we left,’ said Jakob. He nodded towards Bjordrin, who was sitting with his back to the mast playing dice with some of Narthur’s followers. ‘It was his brother who helped him keep his hold on power. If it hadn’t been for their greater dislike of you, the Fjaergard would have ousted Hrolfgar rather than challenge you.’

‘You think he sent me on this raid to get me out of the way for a while, to allow him to tighten his grip on power?’ said Kurt.

Jakob laughed, a short barking noise.

‘He sent you away Kurt, so that you would not come back,’ said Jakob. ‘He will not be pleased to see you when you return. He will be more displeased to see you return with wealth and glory, with the warriors of a conquered tribe at your command, and the ships of a freigattur behind you.’

Jakob’s words troubled Kurt. He knew that the shaman was only telling him this because he had some agenda of his own to fulfil, but Jakob’s reasoning made worrying sense.

‘Do you think he will have harmed Anyata or Heldred?’ Kurt said, his fingers digging into Jakob’s shoulder until the shaman winced and tore himself away.

‘It is not the way of the Norse,’ said Jakob. ‘Not while you are not there to protect them. Hrolfgar will see that he cannot challenge you openly. You are chosen, he cannot defeat you in combat, and you have more blades under you than he has. No, he will fear for his position, and will doubly fear for it because he knows that those who remained in Fjaergardhold, those he thinks he can trust, will be impressed by your achievements.’

‘So how can I assure him I am no threat?’ said Kurt. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘I am telling you this because without you, I will not survive long,’ said Jakob, turning away. ‘I led you to them, but only while you still remain will they tolerate my presence.’

‘But you are a shaman,’ said Kurt. ‘You have powers they can use.’

‘Use? Yes,’ said Jakob. ‘But perhaps not of my free will. I am not a powerful shaman, I cannot make prophecies or speak in the tongue of the gods. I channel the breath of the gods, I can bid their minor servants to enact my will. It is not much, and certainly not enough for a bastard half-Norse in a tribe that he was not born into.’

‘So you fear for yourself,’ said Kurt with a sneer. ‘That is nothing new. What has that got to do with Hrolfgar and me?’

‘He will try to turn you, try to make you his slave,’ said Jakob.

‘And how do you think he’ll try to do that?’ said Kurt. He saw Bjordrin stand up, laughing with the Norse he had been dicing with, and start towards them. Kurt stepped forward and waved to Bjordrin.

‘I don’t trust Narthur’s man,’ Kurt said to him. ‘Check that we are on course and heading for Fjaergard.’

Bjordrin nodded and turned back up the ship and walked away. Kurt rounded on Jakob.

‘What is it you are trying to get me to do?’ said Kurt. ‘And tell me plainly why I should.’

‘Hrolfgar will expect a challenge from you,’ said Jakob. ‘Do it. Be strong, become chieftain of the Fjaergard. If you do not, you will seem weak to the others. That is loyalty in Norsca. The strongest lead, the weaker follow. It is the best way, and they all know it.’

‘I am the strongest, that’s true,’ said Kurt with a disconsolate shake of his head. ‘Perhaps you are right, perhaps it is time that I took my place at the head of the table rather than at Hrolfgar’s left hand. But what of Bjordrin? He has been my ally for these past months.’

Jakob simply pointed to Kurt’s ragged banner stowed amongst the treasure, and Gird who was sat next to it.

‘Even brothers will follow a strong leader,’ said Jakob.

That night, Kurt could not sleep. His skin itched with impatience, and he stood on deck looking at the stars. He longed to be back with his family and time could not pass quickly enough for that. However, Jakob’s warning and advice unsettled him, and he pondered a possible confrontation with Hrolfgar.

As the moons rose and set, he made a decision. He would challenge Hrolfgar the moment he returned. If Hrolfgar wished to fight, Kurt would slay him. If he wished to remain, Kurt would hear his pledge of loyalty, and if he, or any others, wished to leave, he would give them supplies and wish them the fortune of the gods.

Feeling happier about himself having made the decision, Kurt went once more to the prow of the ship and stood there, waiting for dawn to arrive so that he might see the familiar sight of Fjaergardhold.

The first rays of the sun did not bring Kurt a welcome sight. He could see the headlands that marked the entrance to the Fjaergardfjord, and above them a haze of smoke drifted. He could smell burned wood on the breeze as they rounded the headland, Narthur’s warriors at the oars to bring them into the deep valley.

There, at the beach, Fjaergard lay in ruins.

The burned out shells of the longships sat on the rocky shore, the torched huts of the village reduced to ashes and rubble. The palisade was torn asunder and shattered in places and the gates hung off their hinges.

A great murmuring of dismay rose up from the Fjaergard who stood behind him, also hoping to see their home. Kurt was stunned. As he stared at the devastation, his mind went blank. Then a single thought ran through his mind.

Heldred and Anyata.

He turned and roared at the Slangots to row faster, bellowing his rage at them. Shock and horror was written across the face of Narthur, who stood next to the mast, looking dumbly up the fjord.

For Kurt, they could not land soon enough, and as soon as the keel began to scrape the ground, he leaped over the side and splashed through the water up the shore. He called out Anyata’s name and a few figures emerged from the smoking ruins, faces blackened with soot, streaked with tears. He recognised Anyata’s mother, Getha, and raced across the blackened ground and piles of charred wood and ash towards her.

‘Getha!’ he said. ‘Getha! Where’s my son?’

She looked up at Kurt, her face set, her gaze hard. Then she slapped him hard across the face, making his cheek sting. She drew her hand back for another blow, but Kurt grabbed her wrist and hauled her from her feet.

‘Where’s my son!’ he said. ‘Where’s Heldred?’

‘Where were you?’ said Getha. ‘Do you know how long you have been away? We thought you had all died! Where were you when the soldiers came?’

‘Getha!’ said Kurt, dragging the woman to her feet and letting go of her. ‘Tell me where my son is! Tell me where Anyata is.’

‘She went to fight with the other shieldmaidens,’ said Getha, pointing down to the shore. ‘They came in boats, with sticks that barked with fire. She died, Kurt. She died! They killed her!’

Now the old woman began to cry and fell to her knees, wrapping her arms around his legs, her check against his thigh. He stroked her hair for a moment, gazing down at the water’s edge. He could picture them standing there, Anyata with them, defiant as the soldiers of the Empire came ashore, shield and sword in her hands. He could also imagine the explosion of flame and smoke as the handgunners opened fire, for surely that is what Getha was talking about.

‘We tried to stop them, but the red-haired witch came ashore and they took the torch to everything,’ said Getha with a sob. ‘I tried to get to Heldred, I swear, Kurt. But there were soldiers everywhere and the flames were too hot.’

‘He burned?’ said Kurt, his voice a low growl, his hand tightening in her hair, dragging her back to her feet again. ‘My son is dead?’

It was too much for Kurt. His father, mother and sister had burned at the stake on the orders of Marius van Diesl. Fire had followed him everywhere since then, to Tungask and now to his own son. He flung Getha away, her neck snapping under his grip, and her body fell into a pile of ash. There were a few other survivors picking their way through the ruins, but they fled in terror as Kurt stalked between the still-smouldering wreckage, bellowing in his rage. He spied Orlun, one of the old warriors who had refused to follow him. The man turned to run when he saw Kurt’s expression, but Kurt bounded forward and grabbed him around the throat.

‘Why are you alive?’ said Kurt, lifting Orlun off the ground. The man was too terrified to speak. ‘Why did you not die to protect my son?’

Orlun was shaking, and a trickle of fluid ran down his leg and onto the ground as his fear made him lose control of his bodily functions.

‘The witch,’ he said. ‘The sigmarite witch from Tungask followed you here.’

Orlun fell to the ground as Kurt release his hold, stepping back with shock. He remembered what Getha had just said. The red-haired witch.

‘Tell me more,’ said Kurt.

‘Her and the hairy giant, I saw them come ashore,’ said Orlun. ‘She carried a sword that burned with blue light, and she made the soldiers raze everything. I watched from up on the cliff.’

‘Who? Who was she?’ said Kurt, looming over the old man.

‘I told you,’ Orlun said. ‘It was that witch that you fought over in Tungask. The one who betrayed you to the madman. I remember her face clearly.’

Kurt staggered away, his mind reeling. He felt his anger rising inside him, burning at his heart.

On the beach, the Fjaergard were wandering around the remnants of the longships and their homes, equally dazed. Jakob was supervising the Slangots unloading the treasure, Narthur stood next to him.

The shaman felt a change in the air, could feel the magic that saturated the land being drawn into the ruined village. It was building up, gathering strength, roiling and churning in its intensity.

‘Down!’ shouted Jakob, hurling himself down the beach and diving into the water. The others looked at him for a moment in astonishment, and then their attention was drawn to the ruins of Fjaergardhold.

A rising column of fire towered from the devastated village, a hundred feet high. The flickering flames wreathed and twisted with a life of their own.

With a crack like thunder, the fire exploded outwards. The flames and shockwaves tore through the burning ruins in a wall of ash, fire and splinters. The wave of flame crashed across the beach, hurling men from their feet, tossing chests into the air, the water’s edge flung up in cloud of steam. Flaming corpses fell to the ground and splashed into the ash-laden water. A great pall of smoke lay across the bay.

From the smoke a figure emerged.

It was Kurt. He was naked and bald, his clothes and hair burned, wisps of fire still trailing from his skin. In his hand he held his sword, its blade burning with magical energy.

Kurt looked at the treasure chests that were being piled on the beach, and then at Jakob. Narthur picked himself up from the shale, his flesh reddened and burnt in places.

‘The southerners will pay for this,’ said Kurt, his voice low and heavy. ‘The witch will die.’

‘We will catch them,’ Narthur said, looking in disbelief at the smoking crater that now lay where Fjaergardhold had stood. ‘And then the age of gold will begin in their memory.’

‘No,’ said Kurt.

‘What?’ said Narthur. ‘You do not want vengeance for this?’

Kurt looked at him for a long moment, and then tossed his sword down.

‘There will be no age of gold,’ Kurt said, his face twisted in a feral snarl. ‘We will bring the age of blood to the world. The murderers of my wife and son, their families, their homes, their towns and cities. I will have them destroyed, as they have destroyed what is most dear to me.’

‘What of the freigattur?’ said Narthur. ‘You can’t just decide what to do, you must talk to the others.’

Kurt’s stare bored into the other Chosen’s gaze.

‘Only now do I realise how far I have wandered from the path the gods wish me to tread,’ said Kurt. ‘Where was their glory in my quest? I thought only of myself and my own wealth. I was no better than the squabbling lords in the Empire that I despise so much. This is punishment for abandoning them. We don’t need treasure. We have the gods.’

Kurt grabbed the nearest chest and using his unnatural strength heaved it out into the waves, past the king’s ship’s stern. It disappeared with a splash. He grabbed the next chest and lifted it, but Narthur stopped him.

‘This is not only your gold now,’ he said. ‘What about the freigattur?’

Kurt smashed the other champion from his feet with a swing of the heavy strongbox, and then stepped forward, bringing it down into Narthur’s head with a yell, crushing his skull. The Slangots reached for their weapons, but as power and anger surged through Kurt’s body, he brought his hands together, splintering the chest and scattering gold over the rocks. Flames danced from his fingers as he turned on them.

‘We do not fight for gold!’ he roared. ‘Blood and the gods! We fight for blood and the gods! We shall usher in the age of the gods with a tide of death, and I shall be their messenger! Spread the word! The Sutenvolf is on the hunt!’

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gav Thorpe has been rampaging across the worlds of Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000 for many years as both an author and games developer. He hails from the den of scurvy outlaws called Nottingham and makes regular sorties to unleash bloodshed and mayhem. He shares his hideout with Dennis, a mechanical hamster sworn to enslave mankind. Dennis is currently trying to develop an iPhone app that will hypnotise his victims. Gav’s previous novels include fan-favourite Angels of Darkness and the epic Malekith, first instalment in the Sundering trilogy, amongst many others.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Published in 2003 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

Cover illustration by Paul Dainton.

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ISBN 978-0-85787-418-4

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