CHAPTER TEN

 

 

Less than a century ago, the Wasteland had been part of the Empire; but over the years the burgomeisters of Marienburg had won a number of concessions for their city, which was the gateway to the rest of the world for so much of the Empire. With the backing of Bretonnia, the Wasteland had finally seceded and gained its own independence.

The mouth of the Reik was a mile from one shore to the opposite bank, but there were many islands in the delta, so that the river flowed down to the ocean in a series of narrow tributaries. Marienburg was built upon these islands, the different parts of the city joined by numerous bridges. Only one such waterway was dredged deep enough for the largest ships to pass through; and over this there was but one bridge beneath which the tallest vessels could sail: High Bridge. The major navigable channel was on the south side of Marienburg, which was where the dock facilities had developed.

The city was walled to protect itself from raiding pirates and to assert its independence, and many of the largest houses were themselves fortresses. They belonged to wealthy merchant families, explained Wolf, traders whose ancestors had probably been pirates and corsairs. Konrad had once been very impressed by the port of Erengrad, on the Kislev border, but that was no more than a fishing village when compared with the size and splendour of the greatest port in the Old World.

He and Wolf gazed across at the city, and to where all the vessels rode at anchor in the wide bay beyond, waiting for the tide to turn so that they could enter the harbour. There were ships of every size and description, with pilots and customs officials being ferried between the foreign vessels by a number of small boats flying the emblem of Marienburg: a mermaid holding a sword in her right hand, a bag of coins in her left.

“Let’s get a drink,” said Wolf. “Although now that you’re here, there’s a chance that every tavern in town will burn down!”

“I thought we were heading for Altdorf.”

We’ll make for one of the dockside inns, that’s the best way to find a passage. But while we’re there, we might as well refresh ourselves after our journey.”

“How do we pay the boat fare?”

“I have a few funds,” said Wolf, which was probably the most astonishing thing Konrad had ever heard him say.

Throughout the time he had been with Wolf, Konrad’s total pay had not amounted to more than a handful of crowns.

Wolf never had any money, even from the very start. When they were heading for the Kislev frontier, he had swapped his packhorse for their passage to Praag along the River Lynsk. Wolf had hoped to make a fortune while working as mercenary in the gold mine, and he had dreamed of untold riches from the lost dwarf temple.

“What about the plot to replace the Emperor with an impostor?” he asked, as they rode towards the Reik.

They both knew this was the reason for returning to Altdorf, but they had not discussed it until now. Although not a direct descendant, Karl-Franz was the latest of Sigmar’s heirs—and he had to be protected.

A few months ago, Konrad had felt no concern for the Emperor, but much had happened since then; and now he knew what his mission must be, what Sigmar required of him.

He had originally been reluctant to reveal all that had happened to him during the months since Kislev; and now that he and Wolf were together, comrades again, it no longer seemed important.

“The skaven have made a doppelganger of the Emperor,” he said. “I’ve seen it.”

At one time, Konrad had been Gaxar’s prisoner deep beneath Middenheim; but during the human invasion of the skaven lair, while Konrad had been fighting against Silver Eye, Gaxar had been seen with another human hostage. Litzenreich had identified the figure as the Emperor. It could not really have been Karl-Franz, and must have been a replica. Konrad had since seen portraits of the Emperor, and the likeness was perfect.

This was not the first duplicate Gaxar had produced. The grey seer had also made a likeness of Konrad—which Konrad had fought and destroyed.

“The only reason the skaven can have for wanting a double of Karl-Franz is so they can assassinate the real Emperor and replace him with a puppet,” said Konrad. “The Imperial guard must be in on the plot, which is why they tried to kill me when I found out.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“The guard seem to have become the minions of Slaanesh, while the god of the skaven is the Horned Rat. It seems unlikely that these two factions would co-operate. Perhaps the skaven would ally themselves with Nurgle’s pestilential swarms, but not the servants of the lord of pleasure. They’d be more likely to rip each other apart.”

“But the rival forces of Chaos do operate together on occasion, when it’s to their mutual advantage. You know that. And destroying the Emperor, the figurehead of human resistance, would be exactly what they both want.”

And Konrad knew exactly who had forged this alliance of the damned: Skullface.

He had only ever seen Skullface twice, but his skeletal figure had always been in the shadows, manipulating and scheming.

It must have been Skullface who had directed the warrior in bronze, luring Konrad away from the dwarf temple, then ensuring that the suit of armour was there to capture Konrad when he had escaped from Kastring’s marauding warband. He had wanted Konrad dead, devoured by the Chaos armour, but Konrad had survived.

It must have been Skullface who had arranged for Krysten to fall into Zuntermein’s clutches. Corrupted by the depraved beliefs of Khorne during her unimaginable journey from Kislev to Altdorf, she had become the hostage of a Slaaneshi cult.

Krysten was the lure to entrap Konrad, but once again he had survived.

And it was Skullface who had Elyssa,..

“Maybe,” said Wolf, again. “But what are we going to do about it?”

“We can warn him. Tell him that the Imperial guard are all traitors, that the skaven intend to destroy him.”

“Write him a letter, you mean?”

“No!”

“You’re right. The postal system isn’t what it was. It would probably arrive too late.”

Konrad stared at Wolf. “You don’t seem to be taking this very seriously.”

Wolf met his eyes. “And you seem to be taking it too seriously.”

He seemed aware that Konrad had another motive for returning to Altdorf, and until now Konrad had been unwilling to admit this even to himself.

Elyssa had been tainted by Chaos, and Konrad had considered that she was forever doomed. But Galea was once far more damned than Elyssa, and her soul had been redeemed. Perhaps Elyssa, too, could be saved.

“What do you think we should do?” asked Konrad.

“Warn the Emperor, as you said. If he’s not back in Altdorf, we keep on the river to Talabheim and find him there.”

“Or we could stop in Altdorf to try and find out what is going on—and stop it.”

“Fight the Imperial guard, fight the skaven, find and destroy the impostor? Just you and me?” Although he had been trying to keep a straight face, Wolf could not help but smile.

“Have you got a better idea?”

“Maybe.”

Konrad waited, and waited. “What?” he prompted.

“We invade the city.”

“Just you and me?”

“And a few others. We raise an army of mercenaries to attack Altdorf, creating a diversion while we sneak in and discover what’s really happening.”

“Attack the Imperial capital? That’s quite a diversion. Where do we find this army?”

“Here.” Wolf gestured towards the city beyond them. “Everyone hates Altdorf and Altdorfers, even me—and I’m from there. They are so arrogant, believing they’re far superior to everyone else in the Empire, the Old World, the entire world. We’ll loot the city, burn it down!”

Konrad stared at him.

Wolf shrugged. “Maybe you can burn down a couple of taverns, Konrad. The ones which sell the worst ale.”

“How can we raise an army here?”

“We can find the kind of army we want. One that will make enough noise and call plenty of attention to themselves and waste valuable time while they are all slaughtered—while we do what we have to do.”

On the frontier, Wolf would have no hesitation in allowing a group of his own men to be killed if he deemed it necessary, offering them as bait to draw the Chaos clans into a trap where they could be exterminated. But the ones that he sacrificed were never those he considered true warriors. He regarded most of those who called themselves mercenaries with as much contempt as the benighted battalions they fought. Their only function was to die, and it was a bonus if they happened to kill some of the enemy troops before their own deaths.

Murderers, thieves, bandits, cutpurses, the vermin of the Empire, they all dignified themselves with the name “mercenary,” believing that the assumed title granted legitimacy to their brutal cowardice.

This was the reason why Wolf had once said he preferred to consider himself a “soldier of fortune”; he did not wish to be associated with the gutter thugs who gave fighting for reward a bad name.

When Wolf and Konrad first arrived at the gold mine, those were the kind of men who had already been hired as guards. There was little to choose between them and the miners, all of whom were convicted criminals serving out their sentences. The guards had probably fled their native lands in order to avoid being jailed; the miners were the unlucky ones who had been caught.

It was only after Wolf took charge that true soldiers were recruited, men who knew how to fight face to face, instead of relying upon a knife in the back; men who had been trained for years, who accepted discipline and would obey orders— most of the time. The robbers and assassins died, while the real warriors fulfilled their proper function. This was when Wolf’s professional army began driving back the invaders, taking the battle to the renegade hordes instead of waiting for the mine to be attacked.

Marienburg stood at the edge of the Old World, and here was where the scum from every land would gather, because this was as far as they could travel. The city was full of fugitives, criminals on the run from all over the world, deserters who had jumped ship as soon as they reached port, desperados who would slit a dozen throats for the price of a drink.

This was the ideal place for recruiting a force of ersatz mercenaries.

“And we find our army in the harbour taverns?” said Konrad.

“That’s right. And while we’re there, we might as well raise a tankard or two.”

Konrad laughed and shook his head. “I hope you have plenty of funds. You’ll need a fortune to equip this army and get them to Altdorf.”

“We find some backers,” said Wolf. “They finance the expedition in return for a share of the profits.”

Konrad watched Wolf as he explained, and he began to wonder if Wolf really did intend to sack Altdorf, if that was his own motive for returning to the Imperial capital.

“They’ll expect to make a killing,” Wolf concluded. “And, in a way, they’ll be right.” He grinned wickedly, his sharpened teeth gleaming. �

“Maybe it would be best if we went to Altdorf alone,” suggested Konrad.

“No, no.” Wolf shook his head. “They know you weren’t killed, so they’ll be expecting you back again—but they won’t be expecting an invasion. The more the better.”

Konrad had his doubts, but at the moment it seemed futile to argue. They rode on to where the river bank marked the edge of the city. Marienburg proper began on the other side of the channel, but over the years numerous buildings had spread along the southern side of the waterway, and several vessels were berthed there. Wagons and coaches would cross the river by ferry, but people on horse or on foot could make their way to the other side via High Bridge.

It was almost sunset, the sky rapidly darkening, as Konrad gazed up at the structure. It reminded him of the long road which zig-zagged up the mountainside towards the gates of Middenheim. Although the City of the White Wolf was reached by a number of viaducts and along a wider and higher road, the route to Marienburg was in its own way equally spectacular. A huge stone tower was built upon the southern side of the river, with a roadway coiled around and around, steeply circling the tower on the outside.

The main bridge in Erengrad had a longer span, but that was built of wood, and the centre section could be elevated like a drawbridge. The High Bridge, however, was constructed entirely from massive blocks of stone. These were all wedged against one another, forming a wide arch that was held in place by its own weight. At the opposite end, to the north, the bridge abutted a solid rocky cliff where it was anchored by two heavy pillars.

The toll keeper accepted Wolf’s coins, but the city guards at the base of the tower barely glanced at him or Konrad before waving them past. The two riders began to climb, their horses slowly circling towards the top, while the pinnacle grew narrower towards its apex. Although he was no longer Wolf’s servant, Konrad led the packhorse, as he had done most of the time, and he gazed at the darkening landscape all around.

To the east, the direction from which they had come, was the kind of desolate territory which had given the Wasteland its name. To the north, beyond the gulf, lay the Sea of Claws, its waters grey and ominous. To the south was the River Reik, flowing from Altdorf and deep within the Empire, its tributaries stretching far beyond: to the Black Mountains, Sudenland, Averland, Stirland, the World’s Edge Mountains, and as far north as Kislev. And ahead lay Marienburg itself, which was all that was really visible because of its proximity and its lights: its islands and its bridges, its houses and its shops, its stables and its taverns, its markets and its warehouses, its barracks and its temples, its rivers and its ships.

The bridge was narrower than Konrad had expected, its sides marked by low parapets. The wind was fierce at this height, blowing icy gusts, and he was glad that it was not far to the other side.

He was ahead of Wolf as they began to cross the stone span, and he became aware of two riders approaching from the opposite side. He paid little attention at first, trying not to think how close he was to the edge and how far down it was to the river below.

The first rider was short and squat, with a thick red beard: a dwarf. The other was a human, hooded within his black robes, his beard long and greying.

Konrad slowed his horse and edged it to one side, allowing the other riders plenty of room to pass by. That was when he first took a proper look at the dwarf—and recognized him.

At the same time he heard Wolf’s angry shout of recognition: “Litzenreich!”

 

Wolf drew his sword and urged his mount towards Litzenreich, but Ustnar blocked him off with his own horse. A double-headed fighting axe had been slung over the dwarf’s shoulder, and already the weapon was in his hand. Wolf was clad in his armour, but without his helmet, while Ustnar wore thick furs as protection from the cold.

“Out of my way, runt!” snarled Wolf. “Or you die first!”

“Don’t even try!” growled Ustnar, swinging his axe in an arc to keep Wolf at bay.

“What seems to be the problem?” asked Litzenreich.

“Problem? Problem!” yelled Wolf, his sword pointing at the wizard. “You’re the problem, you bastard! But you won’t be for long!”

“Wolf!” warned Konrad, urging his horse forward. “He’s a wizard…”

With a single bolt of lightning, Litzenreich could hurl Wolf’s burning body over the side of the bridge—and probably Konrad’s own blazing corpse, too.

“I know,” hissed Wolf. “That’s one of the reasons he must die!” He thrust his sword towards Ustnar. “Back!”

The dwarf caught the black blade on the handle of his axe, and they glared at one another. Neither of them had attempted to breach the other’s defence, not yet, but within a few seconds the real fighting would begin.

A blast of cold wind blew through Konrad’s hair, and he glanced down, seeing the shadow of a ship passing through the narrow channel beneath the bridge. The last rays of the sun were reflected from the surface of the river, which seemed even further down than it had done.

He had no quarrel with Litzenreich and Ustnar, but Wolf was his comrade, and if it came to combat then Konrad would fight side by side with Wolf. Under normal circumstances, even such a ferocious warrior as Ustnar would stand little chance against Wolf. But these were hardly normal circumstances, and a sorcerer was the ideal ally in any battle.

“Back!” repeated Wolf.

This time his sword stroke was faster, more forceful, and Ustnar parried with equal alacrity and strength.

“No!” said Ustnar. “You get back! Out of our way!” And he swung his axe, quicker, harder, closer.

Konrad looked at Litzenreich. “Can’t we all pass by in peace?”

“No!” retorted Wolf, as his black blade stabbed forward again. By now he was hardly holding back.

“Peace?” said Litzenreich. “He—that fellow—does not know the word.”

“Fellow! I’m not surprised you’ve forgotten my name. You thought I was dead, didn’t you? You left me to die. But now I’m here to kill you. Wolf! That’s who I am. You won’t have time to forget, because it’s the last thing you’ll ever know!”

Another swordstroke, another axesweep.

“I do not understand why you are complaining,” said Litzenreich. “You did not die. If you had done, you would not now be here.”

Wolf was in no mood for a discussion. He feinted to the left, drew back as Ustnar moved that way to counter the stroke, then leaned forward in his stirrups, jabbing his sword forward. Ustnar dodged aside in time, the blade missed, and it was Wolf’s turn to take evasive action as the dwarf axe sliced towards him.

The two antagonists and their horses occupied most of the width of the bridge, and Konrad could do nothing but watch as the conflict escalated. Litzenreich held his mount’s reins with his left hand, and Konrad expected him to use his right at any moment, a thunderbolt flashing from his outstretched fingers towards Wolf. But it seemed that the wizard was content to be a spectator. Then Konrad caught a glimpse of his right hand, or where his right hand should have been: it was missing. Bound with a piece of leather, the sorcerer’s arm ended at the wrist.

It was Litzenreich who had caused Gaxar to lose his right paw, although Konrad did not know the circumstances. Then when Litzenreich had been the grey seer’s prisoner beneath Altdorf, his limbs had been nailed to the ground, and he had ordered Konrad to pull his right hand free so that he could cast spells against the attacking pygmy troglodytes. But magicians were unable to heal their own wounds, and it seemed Litzenreich’s mutilated hand had not recovered from being ripped loose from the rock. Gaxar was dead, yet he had gained revenge for his own amputation.

When Konrad had been studying the High Bridge earlier, he had observed a number of figures crossing the stone span. Now he realized that he and Wolf had passed no one descending the steep spiral road while they had been ascending. The only others they had encountered anywhere on the bridge had been Litzenreich and Ustnar. Four riders, five horses, there was still no one else attempting to cross—and that did not seem right to Konrad. The imminent darkness should not have prevented other travellers from crossing from south to north.

Wolf and Ustnar fought in earnest, matching each other blow for blow. Litzenreich appeared to be paying little attention to the combat. He had lowered his hood and his head was tilted to one side, as if listening, and he slowly looked around in the direction from which he and Ustnar had come. The far end of the bridge was embedded in the steep rock face, and the dark granite to either side of the end pillars had been hollowed out to form a passage leading directly onto the bridge.

A dim shape glimmered on the horizon. Morrslieb, the lesser moon which was so important to Chaos cultists, was on the ascendant.

And suddenly there were others on the bridge: menacing figures racing towards the centre…

“Skaven!” yelled Konrad, releasing the packhorse and drawing his own sword.

He glanced back over his shoulder, seeing a second dark band of ratbeasts swarming from the tower at the other end of the bridge. The three humans and the dwarf were under attack from both sides, trapped in the middle by their savage ambushers.

Konrad claimed the first victim, as the rampaging creature leading the charge fell to his blade. He avoided the wild swordsweep and hacked at its furry throat, slicing it open, and a spray of blood cascaded from the wound. A second inhuman attacked, its sword thrusting up at Konrad’s waist. He turned the stroke aside with his own weapon, then stabbed the beast between its snarling jaws as its momentum carried it up against Konrad’s horse.

Wolf and Ustnar had disengaged and turned away, the dwarf to defend Litzenreich, the mercenary to join Konrad, their blades slashing and slicing into the mutated rats who rushed at them.

Konrad saw flashes of bright light behind him, smelled the stench of roasting flesh, and he knew that Litzenreich was using his thaumaturgical talents against their common foes.

Konrad and Wolf were above the feral horde, but Konrad preferred to fight on foot under such conditions. Trapped on the bridge, with no room to manoeuvre, he was more of a target on horseback and could easily have been dragged down. But before he could dismount, his horse was hacked away beneath him, its legs chopped clean through. He threw himself aside, and Wolf did the same. They fought side by side, sword by sword.

Skaven seldom fought blade against blade. Their tactics were more likely to be of ambush, to attack with overwhelming strength. They dwelled underground, and they preferred to fight in fetid tunnels where their eyesight gave them an advantage in the dark.

Now they had chosen combat in the open, on the High Bridge; but every other factor was in their favour—the ambush, their numerical superiority, the approaching night.

They were armed with jagged swords and curved blades mounted on long poles, and Konrad recognized the emblem which they carried on their shields and banners and which was branded onto their flesh: a circle with a vertical line down the middle, and two more lines from the centre directed down towards the edge of the circle. It was the clan mark of the skaven he had fought beneath Middenheim, the ones commanded by Gaxar…

But these skaven seemed to have no commander. They were tough, they were strong, they were wild—too wild. In battle, more was required than strength; there had to be brains as well as muscle. The predators were so crazed with blood lust that their numerical superiority counted for nothing; they all wanted to attack at once, and so inevitably obstructed each other. Many of the berserker rats were wounded by the frantic sword strokes of their own verminous breed. They growled and spat, hurling themselves forward without regard to their own fate.

At first Konrad and Wolf were protected by the bodies of their dead horses, and soon their defensive ramparts were strengthened by the increasing pile of skaven corpses.

Konrad kept looking for Silver Eye. If he were here, that would explain the sudden attack—Gaxar’s bodyguard was taking revenge for the death of his master. But Konrad saw no sign of that particular skaven.

Sword in one hand, dagger in the other, he fought as he had not done for a long time. The night air was filled with the screams of the assault force, and with his own and Wolf’s answering battle cries. The rat-things screamed as they attacked, and they screamed as they died. The stones of the bridge became awash with skaven blood, which glistened in Morrslieb’s spectral light.

Konrad thrust and swung with his sword, slaying with ruthless efficiency. He severed limbs and cut off heads, ripped out entrails and crushed bones. He used his feet and his knife, kicking at the wounded, stabbing at those who had not been sufficiently damaged to become immobile. Even with legs that were but stumps, with arms that ended at the elbow, they could still crawl, they could still bite. While they could move they were lethal.

Suddenly everything became still. There was no silence, because many of the ugly brutes screamed as the blood spilled from their fatal wounds and they gasped for their final breath of air.

“Just like old times,” Wolf said to Konrad, as he surveyed the carnage and wiped blood from his face with his gauntlet.

During the onslaught, it had seemed that there was a whole legion of inhumans charging from that end of the bridge; but there could have been no more than a score of bodies scattered around them.

Then there was another yell, and one last demented skaven came bounding over the mound of the dead, launching itself towards Konrad and Wolf. They both caught the creature at once, impaling it upon their weapons, one black blade and one Imperial guard sword. The mutated rodent staggered to one side, twitching, screeching.

Wolf pulled his sword free from the dying brute, but Konrad felt his weapon being twisted out of his hand. He tried to retain his grip, but his hand was too slippery with blood.

The final enemy staggered to the side of the bridge, vainly trying to tear Konrad’s sword out of its chest; but it only succeeded in severing its own clawed fingers on the blade’s edge. Colliding with the low parapet, it swayed and fell backwards. It tumbled down, down, its screech of pain and of death diminishing as it dropped towards the Reik far below.

“You all right?” asked Wolf.

“I think so.” Konrad was covered in blood, sticky and slimy, but not much of it seemed to be his own.

They turned to face Litzenreich and Ustnar, both of whom had also survived. Their horses were slain, and a pile of hideous carcasses lay around them, some bloodied and some blackened. The wizard and the dwarf looked at Konrad and Wolf.

“A truce,” suggested Konrad, and he was speaking to Wolf as well as Litzenreich.

Ustnar was leaning upon his dripping axe; he would do whatever the wizard commanded.

“Very well,” agreed Litzenreich. “We seem to have a common enemy, which is a good basis for negotiation.”

“This isn’t over, Litzenreich,” said Wolf, but he nodded his agreement. Then he added to Konrad: “But at the moment, the most important thing is to get a drink…”

He started to hand his sword over for the blade to be cleaned, then remembered that Konrad’s five years of service had elapsed. Wolf wiped his weapon on his packhorse’s blanket, and unloaded what he needed from the dead animal. One of the skaven was still twitching, and he kicked it a couple of times until it became still.

“If they had had any sense,” he said, “they’d have waited till we killed each other.”

Litzenreich said something to Ustnar, who began to examine the skaven corpses. Having lost his sword, Konrad studied the blades which had been carried by their insane attackers. But there was a difference between taking an Imperial guard sword which had been used by a Chaos cultist and a weapon which had always belonged to one of the creatures of the damned. He let the benighted blades lie where they had fallen.

These creatures must have been the survivors from the assault on their lair beneath Middenheim. The City of the White Wolf lay hundreds of miles away, yet it would be linked to Marienburg by one of the subterranean passages which connected all the centres of skaven habitation. Wherever humans dwelled, there was also likely to be an infestation of skaven.

But why had this clan come to the Wasteland? Konrad guessed there must be one reason—to try and destroy him. Litzenreich had also been instrumental in annihilating the skaven nest deep below Altdorf. The rat beasts also wanted revenge against the sorcerer.

“How do you know Litzenreich?” Konrad asked.

“From Middenheim. It was—” Wolf stopped. “You know him? Yes, because you knew he was a magician.”

Konrad nodded. “We’ve met.”

Wolf waited for more explanation. None was forthcoming, and so he continued: “When I arrived in Ferlangen and found you, I’d just come from Middenheim. I was almost killed there because of Litzenreich.”

Wolf and Litzenreich…

Yet another link in the web which held Konrad ensnared, its strands becoming ever tighter, like a noose around his throat.