PROLOGUE

Blood of the Pure

With the desperation born of a creature facing annihilation, the orc lashed out at its tormentor. The green-skinned warrior was fast and powerful. Its massive bulk and daubed insignia marked it out as a chieftain amongst its kind, and it moved with the pace and purpose of a killing machine that had already sent countless foes to their graves. But today that power and speed would not be enough. Today, on the windswept Grey Mountains at the very edge of the Empire, death would turn its gaze upon the orc itself.

The creature threw back its bulbous head and released a howl of rage. The cry echoed over the land, across the snow-covered foothills that bordered the realm of man, but met with no answer. The tribe’s journey of bloody plunder had reached its end. The mountain village of Stahlbergen would become their tomb.

The orc’s human opponent took a step back, taunting his prey. Stefan Kumansky drew fresh, frozen air deep into his lungs, and used the stolen moment to absorb the image of his enemy. The orc chieftain was quick for its kind, but Stefan knew that he was quicker. His blade had already found its mark, and blood like blackened oil was flowing from wounds carved in the creature’s olive-tinged flesh. The swordsman fixed the creature with an unblinking stare, and drew himself up to his full height. A bitter smile formed on his lips.

“That’s right,” he said, quietly. “Get a good look at me. Let my face be your last memory of this world.”

The orc roared again, sensing this was its last chance of survival. It launched itself at Stefan, compressing all its remaining strength into one last attack. Stefan was pushed back onto the defensive. He thrust out his sword to parry the axe, and the collision of steel on steel sent a hammer pulse shuddering through the length of his body. He struggled to keep his foothold upon the icy slope; one slip now and the orc would have him.

He looked up as the greenskin chieftain bore down upon him. Sunlight glinted off the razored edge of the orc’s axe. For an instant Stefan lowered his guard, inviting the blow. The orc’s sunken eyes widened in surprise as it heaved the axe. As it fell, Stefan sprang forward, beneath the arc of the blade. Before the orc could react he stabbed out with his sword, severing the orc’s hold upon the weapon.

The axe hit the ground, spattering the snow with blood. The orc tried to stop and turn, but its momentum carried it on down the icy slope until, finally, it fell. Immediately Stefan was upon it, his sword levelled at the orc’s heavily built body. His lungs were pumping furiously as he fought for air on the high mountain. Stefan knew that he, too, was near collapse. His sword, as he raised it, felt heavier than he could ever have imagined.

The fallen orc gazed up at the exhausted swordsman standing over him. A look of sly animal cunning flickered in its eyes. As the orc twisted its huge body round, grasping at a final chance, Stefan delivered the blow, stabbing the sword down firmly into the monster’s chest. The steel pared flesh from bone in the thickly muscled cavity, releasing a spray of putrid gore.

“That’s for the dead of Stahlbergen,” Stefan shouted. He pulled the sword clear then drove it down again, tearing the leathery flesh apart. He stood back, and from somewhere found the strength to lift the sword once more, but the orc’s death throes had subsided. It would never move again.

Stefan looked down and spat upon the body. “That’s for all of us,” he muttered. “The living and the dead.”

He let the sword drop and sank to his knees, weariness pouring through him. A sudden, eerie stillness had settled upon the mountain. Up above, along the path winding around the mountain, the village lay quiet, almost tranquil in the morning sun. The peacefulness of the scene belied the carnage that had gone before.

Stefan drew down a deep breath, and ran fingers through the tangle of matted hair hanging down over his face. For a swordsman who had known barely twenty-three summers, he had already grown well accustomed to victory. But he knew that, this time, he was not yet ready to savour its taste. The orcs might have been put to the sword, but Stefan Kumansky’s mission was far from ended.

His journey had begun far away, in Altdorf, at the very heart of the Empire. Stefan had been one of the band of swordsmen hired by Heinrich Krenzler. The proposition that the young adventurer had laid before them was as simple as it was dangerous: ride to the Grey Mountains and seek out and destroy the orc warband that had taken the village of Stahlbergen. Krenzler was offering a generous purse, but even without the money, this was a task that was true to Stefan’s heart. He had willingly pledged his sword to the cause.

Yet he had ridden to the Grey Mountains knowing that there was another side to their mission. Stories told of a missing gemstone had been circulating for months amongst the swordsmen of the Empire. A gemstone plundered by the orcs from a sorcerer in Gratz, an all but forgotten place deep within the forest that bordered the Grey Mountains.

That it was valuable—a gem cut from rare and precious stone—was beyond dispute. But others held that it possessed darker virtues; that it was a talisman for evil, with charms that could enchant and enslave. Many of the men who had ridden to Stahlbergen had paid no heed to the story. But Krenzler had believed it, and so had Stefan. Destroying the orcs would count for nothing if the stone itself was not also eliminated.

The sound of footsteps and a voice calling his name shook Stefan from his reverie. He looked up, and for a moment his heart lifted to see Bruno Hausmann, still alive and well, emerging from the maze of wooded paths that led from the far side of the village.

Stefan scrambled to his feet, eager to share news of his victory with his comrade, but he quickly saw that Bruno was in no mood for celebration. The look in his brown eyes spoke of anguish, not of jubilation. Stefan wiped away the filth encrusting the hilt of his sword, a knot tightening in his stomach. Bruno stopped short of Stefan, his words interspersed between gasps for breath.

“Have you seen them?” he asked Stefan.

“Seen who?” Stefan demanded. “What’s happened?”

“Orcs. A group of them managed to break out. They’ve taken captives, Stefan. Women from the village.”

Stefan gazed around him. Despite Bruno’s words, images of Krenzler and the gemstone still dominated his thoughts. “I’ve seen no one,” he said after a moment. “Where’s Alexei and the rest of the men?”

Bruno motioned up the path towards the cluster of dwellings on the hillside. “Many are dead,” he replied. “I don’t know about Alexei. I think he and a few others headed out of the village, hunting down the orcs that escaped to the north.” He broke off, still struggling for breath. “But there were other orcs, Stefan. I saw them.” He gestured down the mountain. “They’ve taken the women to the caves.”

“What about Krenzler?” Stefan interrupted. “What about the stone?” He knew that Krenzler had gone back to the village in search of the crystal. Until they had the Gratz stone, their work was not done.

Bruno shook his head vigorously. “Let’s worry about that later,” he insisted. He caught hold of his comrade’s sleeve, tugging him towards him. “The women, Stefan! We have to find the women, before it’s too late!”

Stefan turned towards his comrade. They had shared so much together. Countless battles along the road, countless victories won and sorrows borne. Sturdy and honest, Bruno was the closest Stefan had ever had to a true friend. He would gladly give his life for him.

But the warning voice would not relent. Stefan had to go back to the village.

He pulled himself free of Bruno’s grasp. “Krenzler went to find the stone,” he said, firmly. “Destroying the orcs will count for nothing if we don’t find it. Evil will only find another host. We have to destroy it.”

Bruno spread his arms wide in as gesture of disbelief. “Didn’t you hear what I said?” he implored. This is about more than a miserable crystal. There’s people down there who are going to die if we don’t do something. Now, Stefan.”

The two swordsmen stood facing each other, their breath frosting the crisp air. Stefan wanted to tell Bruno that his heart was torn, that he would willingly tear himself into two parts if he could. But he knew deep in his soul that the voice would allow him only one path, as it always had these past twelve years. And he knew, too, that Bruno would not understand.

In the end, no one could ever truly understand the force that drove him on.

“Take one of the others,” Stefan said at last. “Find Alexei. I’m going after Krenzler.”

Bruno stared back at Stefan, his expression growing cold, disbelieving. The silence on the mountain fell like a curtain between them. The moment was broken by the sound of a human voice, a woman’s scream rising up from the honeycomb of caves below.

Bruno’s face creased with anger and hurt. “Do what you will,” he said. “I won’t abandon those people.” He turned away from Stefan and ran towards the path leading down the mountain.

Stefan stood, watching his friend for a few moments longer, before taking his own, opposite path, back up the mountain towards the village. He had no choice; Krenzler had gone in search of the gemstone and had not returned. Stefan knew he must finish what they had begun.

Further along the trail, the village of Stahlbergen began to reveal its scars. The greenskin occupiers might have been purged, but the legacy of their short and brutal reign was all too apparent. True to their reputation, the orc warband had plundered all that they could find. Anything of any value had been ripped from the heart of the village, and what could not be plundered had been destroyed. Houses lay in ruins, walls cracked and crumbling and doors broken down and smashed upon the roadway. Plumes of acrid smoke drifted up from the hearts of countless fires, curling like cruel black snakes against the white tableau of the mountain.

Most of all, the cost could be counted in human lives. At each turn in the road Stefan came across more of them: men, women and children from the village, and the bodies of his fallen comrades. More than a dozen men had ridden to the mountains with Heinrich Krenzler; only a few would make the journey home. The dead lay amongst the burning wreckage, their bodies like broken dolls. The air was thick with the sweet, sickly smell of charred flesh.

As he looked at the carnage around him, Stefan was drawn back to his memories. To the blackened shell of his childhood home; to the village of Odensk twelve years ago, the day after the Norscans had come. There was the figure, lying face-up upon the cold stones, one arm reaching out towards Stefan. That was the first time he had truly looked upon death. And death had returned his gaze, returned it through the cold, lifeless eyes of his father. That was the day that Stefan had ceased to be a child. That was the day he had set out upon the journey that was going to map his life.

He shivered and hurried on, trying to deflect his thoughts away from the past. He located the centre of the village, and came to a simple white building that had been the shrine of Sigmar. He paused outside the sturdy oak doors, still intact despite the ferocity of the onslaught they had endured. This was where the orcs had made their base, where they had hoarded their treasures. If the stone were anywhere, it would be here. Stefan pushed open the doors and stepped inside the once holy place.

The room stank—of blood, putrefaction and of death. Stefan lit the stub of a candle that he retrieved from the debris. He stepped cautiously inside the shrine, working his way through the vestibule to the main chamber. The single flame cast a pale, waxy light across the interior. The white walls had been daubed with excrement, then further defamed with foul runes painted in blood. Stefan fought back a bitter bile that rose up in his throat.

The only orcs left inside the shrine were very dead. To judge from the devastation all around, their passing had been a particularly bloody one. Scattered amongst the wreckage was what remained of the orcs’ plunder—gold, silver plate, the remnants of precious icons. Some of it was from the village, but not all; some had come from further afield, from other staging posts along the way of the orcs’ savage odyssey. But nowhere could Stefan see anything that might resemble the gemstone he sought.

He looked around, wondering if Krenzler had been here, if he could possibly have taken the command post single-handed. Whatever had happened here, there was no trace of the wealthy adventurer now. It was possible he was dead; that he had paid for his quest to find the ill-favoured stone with his life. It was possible, too, that he had destroyed the crystal before he himself had been destroyed. Somehow, on both counts, Stefan Kumansky doubted that it was so.

Outside, the sun still shone, indifferent to the slaughter. A wave of black carrion birds wheeled in the blue sky above, celebrating death’s dominion and the feasting time to come. Stefan stepped out from under the shadows of the shrine and sat down upon the lip of a well. A stench like death itself rose up from the poisoned water. He looked away from the smoking ruins of the village, across the snow-capped mountain toward the caves below.

He thought about going in search of Bruno, but in his heart knew that it was too late. He had made his decision, and it had yielded him nothing. Stefan sank down and buried his head in his hands. Krenzler had disappeared and the gemstone had slipped through their hands. Evil had been purged from Stahlbergen, only to be set loose upon the world once again.