CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Gathering Storm

 

 

Far beyond the eastern rim of the forest, across the barren marshlands that stretched on into Kislev, Petr Illyich Kuragin was sunk deep within dreams of his own. He found himself standing by the gates of Erengrad, shivering in the bitter wind blowing in from the steppe. Tears froze against his face as he ran his gaze across a blighted land. Everywhere the dark was closing in. Erengrad was crumbling; soon her motherland, Kislev, would crumble with it.

From the horizon a rider on horseback approached the gates, a giant warrior mounted atop a giant steed. Petr Kuragin knew that the rider was Death, knew that he must stop Death from entering the city. He strained against the pitted wheel that would push back the open gates, but his arms and hands were frozen solid. The cold had set hard ice inside his limbs, locking his bones so tight that he could barely move. Every lost opportunity, every squandered moment from a lifetime of chances was running through his mind, mocking his frenzied efforts. With every second that passed, the dark rider raced closer. Kuragin screamed an oath to the gods and laid his shoulder against the gate-wheel. An icy sweat glossed his brow. Gradually, inch by tortured inch, the gates began to close.

But it will be too late, a voice inside his head told him. All your efforts will be in vain. He shut the words out of his mind, trying to push aside the poisonous doubt that sapped his strength. The pounding of the hooves was like a thunder in his ears. He looked up into the face of Death, eyes glowing like red coals behind a dark mask. Death was riding through the gates to claim Erengrad for his dominion.

Not while I live! Kuragin vowed, pushing every last ounce of strength from his body in a desperate effort to force the gates together.

The hammering of the horse’s hooves became the beat of his own heart. Death’s horseman loomed large and terrible in the too slowly narrowing gap. Petr Kuragin prepared to meet his daemons.

He woke with a start, his body drenched from sweat. Already the intensity of the nightmare was evaporating, vanishing from memory like a thief. But the sense of danger, close at hand, lingered in the chill air of his chamber.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom of the single lantern, he saw that he was not alone. His manservant, Dimitri, stood in the open doorway. Behind him stood another man that Kuragin did not at first recognise.

“What’s the matter?” he called out. “What is the news?”

Dimitri bowed his head, apologetic. “I’m sorry, master. This man demanded to see you.”

“That is becoming all too commonplace,” Kuragin remarked, sourly. He peered at the somehow familiar figure standing behind Dimitri in the darkness.

“He said that you would be angered if he were turned away,” Dimitri explained.

“Did he indeed? Let him come forward,” Kuragin ordered, vexed that his sleep should be disturbed, yet equally relieved to be set free of his dreams. He climbed from the bed, wrapping a robe around him. “This had better be good,” he observed.

The man stepped forward, into the halo of light shed by Dimitri’s lantern. Kuragin saw at once that it was Martin Lensky, the sole voice to have spoken out against Rosporov in Katarina Square. The ostler looked out of breath, as though he had been running for his life, and his face and shirt were streaked with blood.

“Forgive the intrusion, your lordship,” Lensky began. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t desperate.”

“It’s all right,” Kuragin replied, mildly. He remembered the ostler’s courage in the square, and a pang of guilt stabbed through him. He would minister to this man’s needs if he could. “What is it you want?” he asked.

Lensky staggered, and would have fallen had Dimitri not been at his side to support him. He rested his weight against the back of an oak chair, and stood breathing heavily for a few moments. “It’s begun,” he said at last. “Evil has risen, and staked its claim to the city. Erengrad is at war.”

The image of the dark horseman flashed into Petr Kuragin’s mind. Death. Death was loose upon the city. Dimitri started to speak, but Kuragin brushed him aside. He strode to the bookcase on the wall of his study and located a map of the city, which he spread open upon the desk. “Show me,” he said to Martin Lensky. “Show me where the trouble has begun.”

The ostler stared at the parchment drawing for a few moments, struggling to make sense of the cartographer’s work. “This is our commune,” he said at last, pointing to a place at the northern end of the city. “In the district they call White Barrow.” He turned to look at Kuragin. “We that live and work in the Barrow are good men all,” he said. “And loyal to the true cause of Erengrad.”

He placed a second finger upon the map and traced a line encircling the warren of streets that formed the district. “They are all around us,” he said. “Too many of them to number. They’re setting flame to our homes. Those of us who don’t burn they put to the sword. The women, and our children, too.”

Kuragin stared down, horror and rage starting to boil within him. Rage that his people were dying, unprotected. Horror because he knew that their murderers had not come from outside the city walls, but from within.

“We beg your protection, lordship, for the city militia are nowhere to be seen. My kinsmen lack no courage, but courage alone is no match for axes and swords.”

The sergeant of the Household Troop appeared in the doorway, summoned from below by the sound of commotion in his master’s chambers. Kuragin waved the man in. “How many men-at-arms can we muster?” he demanded.

“How many men? Apart from those on guard around the walls?” the sergeant asked.

“No, damn you!” Kuragin shot back. “How many men in total?”

“Near thirty in total, lordship. But that would leave the Kuragin House undefended.”

Thirty men. It seemed a pitiful number to pitch against the marauding mob that Rosporov had set upon the streets. Yet somehow it would have to do.

“Tell your men to gather their arms,” Kuragin declared. “Tell them I shall lead them myself.”

“My lord, this is a dangerous course,” Dimitri counseled. “A dozen men left behind would at least secure the house.”

Kuragin looked from Dimitri to Martin Lensky. “We don’t need thirty men to save White Barrow.” He said. “We need fifty or more. But we will take every man that we have. I will not sit safe behind these walls and watch my countrymen die.”

Not any longer, he swore. Not for one day longer.

 

Count Vladimir Rosporov had sat, watching and waiting, until the first rays of the rising sun began flooding the city with orange light. It was a sign, he told himself, a portent of the time soon to come when purging fire would range the length and breadth of Erengrad.

He had taken no sleep that night; he had chosen instead to sit and await the news of events as they unfolded through the hours of darkness. And the news was good. The waking servants of Chaos had risen up and become the catalysts of destruction that night. The Scarandar had sown the seeds of insurrection; weariness and despair of a broken people had done the rest. His time was close at hand, he could sense it. He wanted to be alert to savour its every moment.

The count had a visitor, an ambassador from beyond the city. They served the same master, his visitor and he, but Rosporov formed his allegiances with prudence, wary of trusting any man. He greeted the newcomer with a stiff, formal bow.

The visitor was a northerner, a Norscan probably, broad and thickly muscled as well as tall. The mark of the Changer was clear upon him. What struck Rosporov immediately was his eyes—or, rather, his right eye, for the left was entirely covered by a leather patch. It stared out at Rosporov, deep and piercing. Somehow it seemed not to belong to the man’s body. It was like another being enclosed within him, looking out with that cold and pitiless stare.

The big man looked around the cramped furnishings of the room with evident suspicion. “Not much by way of chambers for a count, is it?” he commented, sourly.

“You forget,” Rosporov replied. “I am a man of the people now. A champion of the common man. Trappings of wealth do not sit well with protestations of humility.”

The Norscan grunted, unimpressed. “Anyway,” Rosporov continued, eyeing the ungainly bulk of the man with growing distaste. “If we are to judge by appearances, you make a poor case for an emissary.”

The Norscan swore angrily and aimed one meaty fist towards Rosporov’s face. The count grasped the fist in his own right hand, and for a moment, the two men stood locked in a trial of strength. Rosporov’s puny limb looked like it would surely snap in two, yet, somehow, he was managing to hold the Norscan back.

My resistance surprises him, Rosporov noted. I have hidden strength. I have the body of the cripple, and the strength of a madman. He smiled, and slackened his grip.

“Things are not always what they seem, my friend.”

The Norscan cursed him, but backed off. He may have the look and manner of a murderous oaf, Rosporov mused, but the eye tells a different tale. He knows exactly what I am worth.

“We’ll waste no more time,” the visitor said. “I’ve come a long way, and taken a great risk to be here.”

“Of course,” Rosporov concurred, “for is not risk but brother to change? Our Lord Tzeentch loves both his children equally.”

“Don’t try mocking me with clever words,” the Norscan warned him. “I am the first servant and emissary of Kyros. Fail to satisfy me, and you will answer to him.”

“Kyros would not find my answers wanting,” the count snapped back. “I am close to delivering my part of the bargain. Closer, I’ll wager, than you are to yours.”

The single eye turned and fixed, cold and unblinking, upon the count. “Tell me what you have achieved.”

“The uprising has begun,” Rosporov said. “The north of the city has already fallen.”

“Do you have the Star?”

“No,” Rosporov conceded. “Not yet. Kuragin clings to his charm like a child to its doll. But it is only a matter of time before he is taken, and with him the icon.”

The big blond man slammed his fist upon the table. “Time is what we do not have!” he thundered. Rosporov granted him a tight-lipped smile. How was it the servants of Change seemed so rarely able to grasp its subtle mechanisms?

“The city is in a state of flux,” he continued. “The seeds of insurrection have been sown. All we need do now is wait for the harvest. Parts of the city are already ours—parts, even, of the city militia.”

“Not the parts that I encountered,” the Norscan growled. “I had to pay my way in blood and guile to penetrate within the walls.”

“You haven’t come here to impress me with your bravery,” Rosporov countered, coldly. “What message does Lord Kyros’ emissary bring?”

“He comes to tell you this,” the Norscan said. “Comes to tell you that in two days, three at the most, he will return to Erengrad at the head of an army. And icon or no icon, insurrection or no insurrection, the city will yield to its might.”

“I savour the coming of that moment,” Rosporov told him. “Indeed, I shall be there in person, to greet you at the open gates.”

The tall warrior got to his feet, drained the wine from his cup, and pulled his cape around his shoulders. “And I tell you this,” he said, his hand upon the door. “If you yet fail our cause, you may count yourself amongst our enemies once the final reckoning starts.”

 

They had spoken of many things during the days that followed, but talked little of the events of that night in the forest. But Stefan had read and gauged the look upon his comrade’s face, and realised that in Bruno something had changed. The wound he had suffered in combat had all but healed overnight; that was wonder enough. But there was an even more wondrous change to be observed in Bruno’s spirit. It was as though a great, crushing weight had suddenly been lifted from him. Now, when their eyes met, Bruno would nod, clearly and affirmatively, as if to signal that the time to put differences aside was close at hand.

All of them seemed happier that morning. The warming sun which seemed to grow stronger with each passing day was helping to lift their spirits. It beat down upon them, casting warming light into the crooks and corners of the forest where only days before they had been icy dark. Periodically Stefan threw back his head just to bathe in its rays. The sun not only warmed, it also helped speed them on their way. With light dappling the forest paths ahead, they could ride probably twice as fast as they had managed in earlier days.

The Forest of Shadows had held them in its chill grip for the better part of two long weeks. Now, surely, it was ready to let them go. Nothing was said, but it was as though all of them could sense a turning point had been reached. They would be out of the forest before long.

The subject of the beastmen had never been far from the riders’ thoughts, and they returned to it again that morning. Not for a moment did Stefan imagine that they had seen the last of them. The handful that they had come upon were probably nothing more than the vanguard, harbingers of the hordes that, somewhere, were even now converging.

“The closer we get to Kislev the more I think about it,” Elena said.

“‘Converging on Erengrad’—I didn’t like the sound of that. What could it mean?”

“I’m not sure, not yet,” Stefan replied. “But if there is to be an attack, I’d wager it was coming soon.”

“One thing you can be sure of,” Alexei said. “What’s left of them won’t be headed for Erengrad bearing gifts.”

True enough, Stefan reflected. It all added to the urgency of their journey. “Pick up the pace,” he shouted back to the others. “We’ll be out of the woods soon enough.”

By the end of the day the paths they were on began to broaden. Wide gaps appeared between the trees as the forest started to thin out.

“Praise the gods,” Stefan murmured. They would escape the shadows at last. Minutes later they forded a stream, the cold waters splashing up high around the horses’ flanks. “This must be it!” Elena cried. “The eastern edge of the forest. The boundary between the Empire and Kislev!”

They climbed the high bank on the far side of the stream and stopped. Elena drew her horse up beside Stefan’s. She looked at him, head on one side, a faint smile on her face. There was something intoxicating, exhilarating, about the sense of light and space opening up around them.

Elena took a deep breath. The smile stayed with her, but began to fade on her lips. “It’s just starting to hit me, what lies ahead for us, beyond the border,” she said. “All this time, travelling, the thought of Kislev’s been like a dream, something not really happening. But now—I don’t know. Perhaps it’s beginning to dawn on me what I’ve taken on.”

“You’ve fared pretty well so far,” Stefan assured her. “You can take pride in what we’ve achieved. We all can.” He looked up, along the slope of a hill towards the ring of trees perhaps a hundred yards distant. The end of the forest. “Come on,” he said, spurring his horse. “Let’s make that dream real.”

They broke through, out of the forest, five abreast at a canter. “You’re right!” Elena shouted back to Stefan. “We should be celebrating!”

Just as they crested the hill, an arrow, or a brace of arrows, skimmed the air a hair’s breadth from Stefan’s face.

“The celebrations can wait,” a voice called out. The arrows struck home against the trunk of a tree to his right, the shafts quivering in the sunlight.

By the time Stefan had drawn his sword they were surrounded. To their left, to their right and dead ahead of them, armed men on horseback barred the way. A dozen longbows were trained upon them, drawstrings taut and ready to fly. One of the riders, the same one who had just addressed them, now pulled ahead of the line.

“Drop your weapons,” the man commanded. “Drop them now.”

Alexei looked from one end of the line of riders to the other. Thirty men or more, at a guess. “We’re not going to fight our way out of this one,” he said quietly.

Stefan looked at him, then at the riders sitting in wait ahead. When Alexei Zucharov said the odds were too great it was time to rethink strategy. Instinct told him these were no friends of Chaos. But, right now, they showed little sign of friendship towards them, either.

He pulled his sword up to saddle height, held it out, and let it drop upon the ground. “Do what he says,” he instructed the others.

Stefan took the man issuing the orders to be the leader of the group. He sat tall in the saddle, with a weather-tanned face framed with ash blond hair that fell to shoulder length. Like the rest of his men, he was dressed for war, with a breastplate buckled over a shirt of light mail. With his faint, dipped accent he could have been a Kislevite, or from the eastern fringes of the Empire or even Bretonnia. Stefan put his age at less than thirty, but he had the confident manner of a man well used to command. He waited until the weapons had been relinquished, then said:

“All right. Now ride out here, slowly, where we can get a good look at you.”

“Won’t you at least tell us who you are?” Stefan asked.

“We’ll know that of you first,” he replied. “That and more. We’ve been tracking your party for a little while. Thought we’d flush you out before too long.”

“Doesn’t look like they were with the goatheads,” one of the others commented. It was then Stefan noticed two of the group were carrying spears decorated with the severed heads of beastmen. He rode forward until he and the blond-haired rider were face to face. All the while he was weighing his possible opponent up, looking for anything that might become a weakness. The other man, he knew, would be doing exactly the same thing. Stefan guessed they would be well matched in open combat. But Alexei was certainly right; the five of them would have little chance against these odds. They must try somehow to talk their way clear. He seized upon mention of the beastmen, hoping this might be a good place to start.

“We came upon a group of them in the forest,” Stefan began. “We killed at least half a dozen.”

“Good for you,” the man commented, the mildest hint of sarcasm in his lilting voice. Stefan felt a twinge of anger stirring in response, and forced himself to ignore it.

“We have a common enemy and no just cause for quarrel,” he said, trying his best to sound reasonable. “All we ask is to be given free passage to go on our way.”

The soldier who had first mentioned beastmen, a beefy-faced man carrying a broadsword, now rode up beside his captain and continued talking as though Stefan was out of earshot. “Maybe they’re mutants?” he offered, by way of a suggestion.

“Maybe,” the blond man concurred. Stefan had the infuriating impression that he was enjoying every moment of this encounter. “Do you think they look like mutants?” he asked his sergeant.

The beefy-faced man hesitated for a moment, running an eye over Stefan and his companions. “Not really,” he concluded.

“Neither do I,” his captain agreed. “But then, that’s no proof of anything. Chaos is capable of many deceptions.”

“We have proof,” Elena broke in. “If you’re truly stupid enough to think we side with Chaos, then we can prove—”

“We can prove ourselves in any way you choose to name,” Stefan said, hurriedly, cutting Elena off. “We mean you no ill. All we ask is that you allow us free passage.”

“Into Kislev?” the captain raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so. Anyway,” he added, “why should your journey bring you through the forest? No ordinary travelers would come that way.”

“We have travelled from Middenheim,” Stefan said. “The trading road east from the city has been sealed, and the mountain passes are thick with bandit gangs. We were forced to cross the forest.” Alexei and Bruno were at his side now. Stefan felt the tension rising. If they weren’t careful, this could end badly.

“We’ll have to tell them our true business,” Elena whispered to him. The blond captain regarded them quizzically, then conferred quietly with his lieutenants.

“The border between the Empire and Kislev was closed for good reason,” he said finally. “You may go free, but you’ll have to head back the way that you’ve come.”

Elena, by his side, let out a gasp of disbelief. Bruno now pushed forward to join the two of them. His face bore an expression of steely determination that Stefan had not seen in a long time.

“You’ll have to kill us first!” he told the captain. A dozen or so archers refocused their aim.

“So be it, if necessary,” the captain replied, coolly. “I’m offering you free passage. Your choice whether you accept.”

“Listen,” Elena said, “You must let us ride on. We have to reach Erengrad.”

The captain looked at Elena as though she were mad. “Erengrad?” he repeated. “Haven’t you heard? There’s a war storm brewing, and Erengrad is at its heart. Even if I were to let you pass, there’s not a chance of you reaching the city on your own.”

“Then let us ride with you and your men,” Stefan said. “If you are truly the enemies of Chaos, then we are allies, and you will have need of us.”

“And what exactly do you have that we would have such need of?”

“Give me my sword back,” Stefan said, evenly, “and I’ll show you.” For a moment the two men faced each other, each holding the other’s unblinking gaze. The captain nodded, almost imperceptibly. “I imagine that you would,” he said, quietly. “But the fact remains, I have my orders—to seal the border, put any beastmen or other scum that emerged from the forest to the sword, and turn all travelers back.”

“Maybe this will convince you, then.” All eyes turned towards Elena. She had removed the chain from around her neck and was holding the segment of the Star aloft. Sunlight flashed off the silver metal. Most of the soldiers simply looked bemused, but Stefan could see from the shocked expression on the face of their leader that he understood all too well its significance. Immediately, he began to engage his lieutenants in conference. Every so often he looked round towards Elena and the Star. Finally he turned back to her and said:

“Where are the other pieces?”

Stefan and Elena exchanged glances. “We have to trust them,” Elena said. “If they are to trust us, then it’s the only way.” Stefan hesitated, then took a deep breath.

“I have the second part,” he said. “The third is still in Erengrad. If what you say is true, then it is in greater peril than we had imagined.”

“And your journey is of greater urgency than I had imagined,” the captain conceded. He rode forward and went to each of them in turn, and now shook them by the hand.

“I am Franz Schiller,” he told them. “The men you see around you owe allegiance to many lands, but they are united here by a single cause.”

“The Old World is in peril,” Stefan said. Schiller nodded. “If Erengrad should fall, then the shadow of Chaos will surely blight us all,” he said. “You must ride with us, of course. But understand,” he said to Elena, “we don’t know what we may meet once we approach the city. Great forces are converging upon Erengrad; forces for evil as well as for good. Only Sigmar knows who shall prevail.”

“I understand,” Elena said, “but without the Star intact, all may be lost.”

“Then let us make haste,” Schiller urged. “There are many hundreds more of us, camped to the south of Erengrad, at Mirov. We rest there tonight, and ride for the city at dawn.”