WH-Warhammer Online-Age of Reckoning 02(R)-Dark Storm Gathering Page 14

  Putting such thoughts to one side, Emil trained his eyes on the foliage on either side of the road. It couldn’t be much further. It was all about timing. Too soon, and the advantage would be gone. Too late, and they would all die pointlessly in a hail of arrows.

  Then, he saw it. A lesser man might have missed the sign, but he was looking out for it and was used to the dappled light of the forest and its deceptive ways. The flash of a helmet, half-buried in the endless green, gave the location away.

  ‘About!’ Emil cried, harshly pulling his horse hard and hauling it back in the opposite direction.

  All around him, the scene dissolved into chaos. Arrows whined across the space in front of him, and he was aware from the corner of his vision of men clambering laboriously from their hiding places. A horn rang out, and was answered further down the road. The trap had been triggered. Now, would they have enough speed to evade its teeth?

  Emil kicked his horse savagely, and crouched low in the saddle. Even with foreknowledge of the ambush, it was a close-run thing. He felt an arrow slide wickedly close to his shoulder. With a pang of regret, he picked out the cries of one of his men who had come around too slowly. But most of the group were with him, and they rode hard back up the road.

  After several yards, he risked a look back over his shoulder. Horsemen were on their trail, and behind them Emil could see men running along the track, leaping over the obstacles in their way in a vain attempt to keep up. This was good. With any luck, the rest of the soldiers would be fanning out through the trees to try and cut off any escape route. The more that followed them, the fewer there would be to hamper Friedrich.

  ‘Ride on, men!’ urged Emil, his heart thumping. ‘Keep them interested!’

  The band of riders kept close together, and rode at a tight gallop back the way they had come, heading north-east towards the thickest part of the forest. There was a maze of faint hunting paths there, and Emil was confident he could lose any pursuit in the shadowed heart of the wood.

  But then, something changed. He looked over his shoulder once more, and his heart missed a beat. The pursuit had been called off. He raised a warning hand, and the riders slowed.

  ‘They’ve withdrawn,’ he said, his expression one of disbelief.

  One of the riders, a young man called Hans with messy auburn hair, pulled alongside.

  ‘Should we ride back?’ he asked, his face nearly as red as his hair.

  Emil shook his head, and made to answer, but then a hail of arrows and crossbow bolts flew into them from the opposite side of the wall of trees about them. It was a warning volley: most thudded into tree trunks harmlessly. Emil felt his exuberance turn to horror. This had all been anticipated. But how?

  ‘Traitors!’ came a commanding voice from the shelter of the trees. ‘Dismount and give yourselves up, or we’ll slay you where you stand!’

  Dozens of men stepped into the sunlight, many with freshly-loaded crossbows. It was hopeless. Emil looked around desperately. More of Heinrich’s men were coming. Seeing the odds, his own troops had raised their hands. His heart black, Emil prepared to do the same.

  But then something in him snapped. With a howl of rage, Emil kicked his horse back into a startled gallop. He tore towards the line of soldiers in his way. A man in the front line stepped out wielding a heavy mace. The horse veered and rode him down. Bolts hissed past his head. He ducked down, trying to keep control of his wildly racing steed. By some miracle, the arrows directed at him missed. He rode onwards, almost blind with rage. Any man who stood in his path was barged aside.

  Emil gritted his teeth, and kicked on. The cries of alarm and anger faded. He looked over his shoulder. He had broken free, but the thought gave him little comfort. Several of his men lay on the forest floor. The others were in enemy hands. And he knew with a terrible certainty that if his plan had been foreseen, then Friedrich’s movements were likely to have been allowed for as well. He had failed, and the rebellion had been dealt a mortal blow.

  The pursuit behind him gave out. After more hard riding, Emil paused for a moment on a high ridge. He looked back warily, hoping to see at least one of his companions riding up to meet him.

  None came. He could just make out a column of horses being led away along the distant road. Heinrich’s men had mostly disappeared from view. Emil was about to ride off again, but then something caught his eye. In the distance, a horseman emerged from the trees. He was tall, and dressed in the armour and garb of an Imperial captain. For a moment, their eyes met across the open space. Emil regarded the figure with a steady gaze, ready to ride off again in an instant, but something held him back. The horseman looked undecided too. Perhaps he was thinking whether to come up after him. Or maybe see to the pursuit of Friedrich’s men instead. Eventually, the Imperial captain turned his horse back into the trees and the muffled noise of barked orders rose up into the air.

  Emil turned his horse around, his anger still intense. He could not let it end like this. Even though the chances were slim, he must try and fight his way back to Friedrich. If the old man could be warned, his forces probably still had the men to fight their way to the crossroads.

  With a flick of his wrists, he pushed his steed back into a canter, and headed along the ridge, looking for a possible route around the men he knew now infested the trees between himself and his remaining troops. The future of the uprising hung by a thread. He had been outmanoeuvred and out-thought, but the game wasn’t over yet.

  His face set into a grim mask of bitter hatred, Emil rode back into the cover of the forest. As the gods were his witness, he was not going to see his dreams unravel without a fight.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Struggling and kicking ineffectually, Alexander crashed upwards out of his nightmare. His eyes flickered open, and he gasped at the cold, dry air. He looked around blearily, and found himself surrounded by a dull red haze. There were dark shapes moving around him. He was lying face-up on a great slab of stone. As his vision cleared and senses returned, he saw that he was chained to it by his wrists and ankles. The events on the moor rushed back to him.

  Alexander shook his head and tried to concentrate. He had been drugged, or perhaps was still under the influence of the spell that had robbed him of his wits. It was hard to recall exacted what had happened. He narrowed his eyes. Gradually, his sight clarified. He was in a dark chamber lit by guttering torches. Despite their burning, it was cold and clammy. He felt like he was underground, buried in some tomb of an ancient warrior-king.

  Alexander lifted his head again, and the shapes came into better focus. He recognised the iron visors of the horsemen, and the memory of the encounter at the river came rushing back. With a chill in his stomach, he picked out the aura of dark magic flowing from them. Why had he not seen it before, out in the open before the casting had felled him? He must have been exhausted. That was the only excuse he could come up with, at any rate.

  ‘Welcome back, Bright wizard,’ came a voice he didn’t recognise.

  Alexander frowned, looking around him for the source of the words. A tall figure came forward towards him holding an iron staff. He was draped in dark robes of silk, and wore a heavy chain around his neck. Somewhat to Alexander’s surprise, he was a human, and with little sign of mutation or excess in his features. He had a thin beard and long, luxurious black hair. Only when he looked into the man’s eyes did Alexander see the mania of Chaos reflected back at him. The figure bore the look of a sorcerer, though one relatively new to the dark arts. The warping effects on long service to the Chaos gods had evidently not yet taken their full toll.

  ‘I trust you enjoyed your dreams,’ the sorcerer said, smiling coldly. ‘Some never return from them. You seem to have a certain strength of will at least. My creatures told me you were hard to subdue, so don’t feel too upset about what happened. Everyone can have a bad day.’

  Alexander felt the last effects of his drugged state begin to slip away. He let his eyes run around the room, probing for any sign of weak
ness. None were obvious.

  ‘Where’s my staff?’ he said, and immediately regretted it. His mouth felt like the final resting place of a number of small, dry animals. As soon as the croaked words left his lips, he was also then aware of the hammering headache in his temples. It was like the worst hangover he had ever had.

  ‘In safekeeping,’ said the sorcerer. ‘We can’t have you using it again just yet. Not until we know a little more about you.’

  Alexander let his head fall back against the cool stone, willing the thumping pain to subside a little so he could concentrate.

  ‘No one knows you’re here, Bright wizard, and no one ever shall,’ the sorcerer continued. ‘But, come now. We can’t keep using such formal titles. My name is Jurgen von Rachsdorf, and I run things around here. As for you, your life depends on how helpful you are to us. First, your name.’

  Despite the headache, Alexander’s mind began to work. Despite the outward bluster, this Rachsdorf didn’t look entirely in control of his emotions. Something in his aura gave away a certain fragility. There might be value in pushing him a little.

  ‘Helmut de Mortivar,’ said Alexander dryly. ‘And I’ve never heard of you. Von Rachsdorf sounds like a noble family, but there are only two lords in these parts, Heinrich and Grauenburg. I’m guessing you bought your title, if there’s anything to it at all.’

  Rachsdorf’s cool visage fell away entirely at that.

  ‘What do you know of such things, peasant?’ the sorcerer roared, and his voice rose in pitch alarmingly. He controlled himself, and took a deep breath. ‘You appreciate nothing of such matters. The only thing that should concern you is that you are in my power, and at my mercy. The former is extensive, the latter is not.’

  Alexander nodded weakly. So the man was volatile. That was something.

  ‘Very well,’ Alexander said more deferentially. ‘Perhaps you would be as good as to explain what’s going on?’

  Rachsdorf recovered his poise, relaxed, and leaned casually against the wall nearest Alexander’s head.

  ‘You could do much the same yourself,’ the sorcerer said. ‘There’s a place near here, a hidden place tucked away in one of the strange rock formations that make this country so interesting. It has recently run into some trouble. To put it more bluntly, someone found his way in and killed all the priests while they were performing their rites. As if this were not bad enough, a servant of mine, one of my most trusted aides, was also killed in a most brutal manner. I don’t suppose you know anything about this, do you?’

  Alexander felt his spirits sink. Clearly Rachsdorf was up to some petty Chaos scheme which had been destroyed by the witch hunters. Being mistaken for one of those butchers was just insulting.

  ‘Of course not,’ Alexander said, letting his contempt for the idea show through. ‘I have no business with you or anyone else in this blighted wilderness. You have the wrong man.’

  Rachsdorf looked down at him sourly.

  ‘You’re in no position to dictate terms, Herr Mortivar,’ he said. ‘And I don’t believe you. You will tell me what you’re doing here, or your death will be a perfection of agony.’

  Alexander clenched his fists in frustration. It was bad enough being interrogated when you had something to hide. It was even worse being mistaken for someone else.

  ‘Look,’ he said, keeping his anger in check with difficulty. ‘I really had nothing to do with the killing of your priests. But even if I did, why would I tell a traitor like you anything?’

  Rachsdorf’s eyes flashed with a brief spasm of anger once more, but he brought it under control. He seemed on the verge of mania fairly constantly. This could either be a help or a hindrance. Without his staff, Alexander was weak, but there still might be things he could do.

  ‘You are as obstinate as you are stupid,’ Rachsdorf said acidly. ‘Perhaps you truly were not aware of what happened to the cabal in the highlands. It matters not. Their work was mostly done, and their places have already been taken by others. Our movement grows in strength daily. With every passing hour, His coming is hastened. You cannot prevent it, Imperial wizard.’

  Rachsdorf leaned forward, a greedy look in his eyes.

  ‘The storm is coming,’ he said, an edge of glee creeping into his unbalanced voice. ‘My Master’s forces muster themselves, and far greater hosts are marching south. When they come, their faithful servants will be rewarded, and their enemies punished. Our power grows, and great magic has been woven. The time is nearly at hand, and the fruits of all our labour are ripe for plucking. You have stumbled into our midst at the most opportune moment. Perhaps you shall be the first to witness His coming.’

  Alexander felt his disgust with Rachsdorf rise. The man was a fool, meddling in things he didn’t understand.

  ‘I’ve heard talk like this before,’ the Bright wizard said coldly. ‘So you’ve made some pact with the Ruinous Powers. What makes you think they’ll keep their side of the bargain? If you’re lucky, only your life will be forfeit.’

  As Alexander spoke, the blood seemed to drain from Rachsdorf’s face.

  ‘You’re in no position to be talking like that, Herr Mortivar,’ he said. A gleam of cruelty had lit up in his eyes. ‘Perhaps you truly know nothing of the events at the cabal. No matter. You will still serve the cause you so disdain, but not in a way you will find pleasant.’

  Rachsdorf turned to the silent armour-clad figures standing in the shadows.

  ‘Take him to the altar,’ he said, curtly. ‘The sacrifice of one so steeped in magic will no doubt hasten His coming. And it will wipe the sanctimony from him.’

  The silent guards, still looking just as they had done when riding, came forward. They roughly unshackled Alexander. Their hands, encased in iron gauntlets, were ice-cold. There was no exposed human flesh on them at all, and Alexander doubted whether there was any under the armour either. They could be golems, or familiars, or just poor souls condemned to be absorbed into the armour they may once have worn in the normal way.

  Once his hands were free, Alexander attempted to make a break and throw himself at Rachsdorf. The chill automata on either side of him were both too quick and too strong. The tight shackles around his ankles had impeded the flow of blood to his legs, and when hauled to his feet he felt weak and shaky. His head still ached, and his mouth was as dry as the desert.

  ‘What will this accomplish?’ Alexander said contemptuously to Rachsdorf. ‘I’ll warn you for the last time. You are marked as a traitor, and you will share the fate of all your kind. Repent now, and your death will be swift and merciful.’

  Rachsdorf looked at him incredulously.

  ‘You only have a few moments of life left to you, wizard,’ he snapped. ‘Do not sully them with empty boasts.’

  He turned to one of the warriors.

  ‘Take him to the altar and bind him. I’ll be with you shortly. We’ll start the ceremony immediately. I want this unbeliever dead within the hour and his soul writhing in the lap of the Master of Change in torment.’

  The blank iron face nodded, and Alexander found himself being dragged roughly out of the chamber and along a high vaulted corridor. Struggling against his captors was futile. Their grip was as strong and unyielding as stone.

  They descended further into the underground complex. As they went, Alexander could see it had once been a temple. He could see that many of the sacred icons and motifs on the walls had been crudely defaced and replaced with the eight-pointed star. Here and there a different symbol had been daubed on the ancient walls. It was a circle with what looked like flames licking upwards on either side. The Mark of Tzeentch. Alexander felt a fresh sickness welling up within him. The whole place had been turned into a den of dark magic. Even without using his augmented senses he could almost see it sliding down the walls and pooling in the shadows.

  They continued to descend. Rather than getting colder and darker, the air began to heat up. The light was a lurid purple. Ahead, he could see the ornate entrance to a great cen
tral chamber. Something was moving within, but plumes of sacrificial smoke clouded his vision. The noise of chanting echoed around the narrow walls of the corridor.

  But there was something else, something terrible, something consumed with malice, something that was almost alive.

  With a sudden shiver of fear, Alexander realised who ‘He’ was. Frantically, he struggled against the vice-like grip of his custodians, writhing against their implacable hold on him. Despite his training, he began to be overwhelmed with panic. Everything around him, the sickness, the wrongness, augmented his terror.

  The automata studiously ignored his cries of anguish, and he was propelled forwards into the vast chamber. The noise of the chanting rose to a fever pitch, and the roar of the other presence rose in volume.

  Alexander looked in horror at what stood before him. This was the end. ‘He’ was waiting.

  Johannes Fassbinder surveyed the scene before him with some satisfaction. The fighting had been hard, and there could be no genuine pleasure in killing one’s own kind. But the traitors were wounded, perhaps mortally so. Many had been hunted down in the trees, and the attempt to trigger the ambush on the road had been successfully thwarted. Fassbinder allowed himself a brief moment of self-congratulation. It had been a brave attempt, but foolhardy. Schulmann was a daring and resourceful adversary, though he needed to learn patience. Fassbinder found himself wondering what the man himself was like. He imagined that the one lone escapee from the earlier encounter was probably Schulmann. He seemed to have an uncanny ability to avoid arrows. That was as useful an attribute for a commander as anything else.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Kirchner’s arrival. He was bloodied and tired-looking.

  ‘Report?’ said Fassbinder.

  The lieutenant smiled through the grime and caked blood.

  ‘Good, sir,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘A group of them managed to fight their way through to the Emperor’s Arms, but we killed many. I would guess that more are scattered towards the east in the deep forest. I’ve sent men after them. The bulk of my command have now regrouped, and await your orders.’