WH-Warhammer Online-Age of Reckoning 02(R)-Dark Storm Gathering Read online

  A mile further on and the marshland finally slumped into the turgid Reik. At a wide bend in the swollen river stood a heavy-set bridge. On the opposite bank was the Emperor’s Arms, seemingly the only mark of civilisation for miles around. It was a typical Reikland inn. Heavy columns of dark, stained stone piled upwards, crowned with sheer-sided roofs of mixed tile, slate and roughly-cut wood. Iron chimneys protruded from every available alcove. The sides of the hulking structure were arranged seemingly at random, jutting in unexpected directions according to the whim of whichever long-dead landlord had jerry-built them.

  Like chicks around a bloated mother hen, smaller structures clustered in its shadow. The entire ramshackle collection hugged the banks of the grey water, spewing thick smoke into the sky. Over the years, the place had become a sprawling township in its own right, profiting from passing trade along the route south towards Altdorf. Tanneries jostled against gaudy brothels, which nestled alongside Sigmarite chapels in the shadow of narrow-windowed gambling dens. Despite the ravages of plague, most of the hovels still bore the look of occupation. In the thin light of the morning many watch-fires smouldered.

  Even from a distance, Fassbinder could see the extent of the filth clogging every surface. Such places, far from the patrols of the rightful authorities, attracted the rabble and scum of the Empire as warm flesh drew a mosquito. He knew the surviving rebels had fled towards its sanctuary. They had been let off the hook. The removal of half of his men, and some of the best at that, had released the pressure. He could no longer even be sure that his forces outnumbered those of the rebels. If the insurgents had recruited more men at the Emperor’s Arms, then he might be at a disadvantage. So far out in the wilds, the edicts of Lord Heinrich carried very little weight, and there were many who would fight for a few copper coins and the promise of plunder.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Kirchner coming up on his right shoulder. Fassbinder thought the man looked sick. Then again, he probably wasn’t a paragon of health himself.

  ‘There could be hundreds hidden in there,’ Kirchner said bitterly, casting his experienced eyes over the settlement. ‘If those damned fools hadn’t…’

  Fassbinder silenced him with a raised hand.

  ‘Enough!’ he snapped, hearing his own anger show too much in his voice. ‘There’s no use complaining. We have a task to complete, and there’s nothing we can do.’

  Kirchner closed his mouth, but his expression remained sour.

  ‘We’ll carry on as before,’ said Fassbinder. ‘The longer we give them to dig in, the harder they’ll be to dislodge. Take your men through the trees to the right. I’ll take the rest to the opposing flank. At my signal, we’ll close in as planned. They’ll probably still be drunk from the night before. I want this to be their last stand.’

  Kirchner looked at him doubtfully.

  ‘With respect, sir, this is risky. The men are tired. We’ve driven them hard, and we still don’t know where Schulmann is. If we had some time to rest…’

  Fassbinder gave him a level stare. In truth, he sympathised with the man’s reasoning. Kirchner was no coward, but the long campaign through the forest hunting both rebels and plague victims was soul-destroying work. He knew his troops were near their limits. A defeat would push many over the edge. But to delay now would only make things worse. Kirchner and the rest could call him a fanatic behind his back as much as they wanted. Command had a price, and it was one he was willing to pay.

  ‘I’ll hear no more about it,’ he said curtly. ‘Lead your men to their positions. When you hear the signal, you will charge. When we have Schulmann’s head on a spike and his men in chains, then we’ll rest.’

  Malek felt a sense of deep satisfaction rise within him. For the first time since leaving the scene of the debacle, the prospect of safety loomed. He had destroyed the evidence of his presence in the undercity, and the final few threads of his activities in Altdorf had been cut. It had taken a while to track down all of his human agents in the city, but now all were dead. Herr Jeremius, the last, swung gently in the air, suspended from the beams of the ceiling by his own leather belt. The old man had put up something of a fight, but a doddery scholar was really no match for a druchii sorcerer. Like all the human tools in Malek’s employ, he had received his just reward in the end.

  The dark elf looked around him with some regret. Jeremius’s private chambers were adorned with a magnificent array of rare and priceless artefacts. His writing desk, a beautiful heavy construction of marquetry, was strewn with leather-bound tomes of knowledge. Glass-fronted cabinets, themselves objects of rare price and craftsmanship, were filled with trinkets and sculptures, many of ancient design. Given more time, Malek would have liked nothing more than an hour’s thievery. Human tastes might be crude and blunt, but they occasionally threw up something surprising.

  His greed was trumped on this occasion by the need to leave. The asur were running riot. Working quickly, Malek began to rifle through the piles of parchment covering every surface of the old man’s study. After a few moments of increasingly frantic searching, he finally found it. The last few scraps of parchment which could give a pursuer any clue as to his identity. Malek threw the scraps up into the air and whispered a couple of words. They burst into lurid flame, and were devoured before hitting the ground. Satisfied his tracks were covered, Malek looked around the untidy room one more time. So much to take. Feeling it would be shame to leave entirely empty-handed, he stuffed a jewelled ring into his silk jerkin. Such finery was wasted on the humans.

  ‘A good choice.’

  Malek whirled around. His staff was raised, crackling with dark fire. Before him stood a hunched and broken figure leaning heavily on a charred staff. A human, though one horribly scarred. The vestiges of dark magic slunk around him. The stink of the Ruinous Powers stained his aura.

  ‘You are a moment from death, human,’ Malek hissed. ‘Give me a reason to spare you, and make it good.’

  The burned man gave a weak, racking cough, and sat down heavily on one of Jeremius’s priceless chairs.

  ‘My name is Leopold Klosser,’ said the human sorcerer. ‘We’re in the same trade, more or less. Kill me now and you’ll regret it later. I have news.’

  Malek sneered at the pathetic figure before him. Everything about him – his whining voice, twisted stance – spoke of weakness.

  ‘Never dare to compare us again,’ he spat. ‘You’re nothing to me, whatever paltry powers you may think you have. Tell me your news quickly – your life depends on it.’

  Klosser fixed Malek with an expression of distaste.

  ‘We’re more alike than you know,’ he said bitterly. ‘This Jeremius was known to me. I’ve been on your trail for some time. You’ve failed in your task, just as I have in mine. You need to leave the city before the high elves tear your eyes out. I need to find a way to make up for my mistakes. Join me, and we’ll both benefit.’

  Malek leaned back against the desk, sceptical but intrigued.

  ‘You claim to know much. I wonder how such a filth-stained creature comes by such knowledge?’

  Klosser shrugged.

  ‘I have some powers of my own. Enough to find a fellow sorcerer if I know where to start looking. Your kind always underestimate us. That’s your weakness. But enough of this. Let me tell you what I came here for.’

  The wretched figure broke into a fresh fit of coughing. Malek waited impatiently, wondering whether it was worth the bother to keep Klosser alive. Just as he was about to raise his staff and burn out his tongue, the human recovered, and began to speak again.

  ‘I work for a man named Rachsdorf. I’m one of many sorcerers in his employ. Some of us were charged with the destruction of an observatory. It was manned by Celestial wizards, and they were coming close to unravelling our purposes. We nearly succeeded, but they fought harder than we expected, and the arrival of a Bright wizard caught us unprepared. I was the only survivor. Much damage was done, but the observatory still stands. Rachsdorf is
not a kind or understanding man. If he finds out I’m alive, he’ll exact punishment.’

  ‘How entertaining,’ said Malek dryly. ‘I hope you die as painfully as your wretched stink merits. But what does this have to do with me?’

  Klosser ignored the insult, and fixed his rheumy eyes on the dark elf.

  ‘You’re not doing much better, I think,’ he said with a faint glimmer of satisfaction. ‘I know what you planned. It has failed. You need somewhere to lie low until the high elves are forced to move on. A temporary haven.’

  ‘I see what you’re doing,’ said Malek. ‘But you offer me nothing. If I wanted a human sorcerer trailing along behind me, there are better candidates than you. Your paltry skills do not interest me.’

  Klosser smiled ruefully.

  ‘Maybe not,’ he said. ‘But I can introduce you to someone more worthy of your interest. I know many things. A great warhost is arriving from the north. My master is part of the conspiracy which hastens its coming. One such as you would be a valuable addition to our plans. You would have a warmer welcome with us than if you stayed here. When your adversaries finally track you down, would you not rather be standing beside a Chosen of Tzeentch than on your own?’

  Malek worked hard to control his emotions, and his face remained contemptuous. Klosser looked at him keenly, evidently eager to see the effect his words had.

  ‘What do you gain from this?’ asked Malek, cautiously. It would not do to rush into things, though he had to admit his interest was piqued.

  ‘Bargaining power,’ said Klosser, his damaged voice wheezing. ‘My life is forfeit whether I return to Rachsdorf or seek to evade his vengeance. But I’ve seen portents about you. The Master of Change is subtle, and news of your presence is known to many. If I were the one to bring you to him, my position would be restored. You see? We can help each other.’

  Malek placed a hand within his cloak, and his fingers closed around the ring he had taken. He played with the bauble absently as he pondered. Treachery was ever possible, but the ruined man before him looked incapable of more than petty trickery. The opportunity was enticing. Matters were coming to a head, and he was mindful of his orders from Lady Arkaneth. If he passed up this chance, he might not get another. He let the ring slip back into the folds of his cloak, and pushed himself back into a standing position. He already towered above the bent body of the human, but allowed a subtle art to augment his appearance and lengthen the shadow he cast.

  ‘Know this, human,’ said Malek, letting the menace slide off his words like acid. ‘If any of what you’ve said is a lie, then your death will reach new heights of pain and depravity. Be in no doubt that my arts in that area are unrivalled. You may show me to this Rachsdorf. If he can lead me to the Chosen, then your pathetic existence will be in no danger, at least from me. Is this understood?’

  Klosser looked up at him timorously, any attempt to hide his fear now forgotten.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ he said, his voice cracked and wavering. ‘You may rely on me.’

  Malek gave him a scornful look.

  ‘I had better,’ he said. ‘Now let us go.’

  The scarred human dragged himself to his feet and stumbled out of the study. Malek followed him wearing an expression of dark satisfaction. Given all that had happened, this was a most promising development. The archmage may have survived, but his other tasks were progressing nicely. The Uthorin bitch was dead and the route to the Chosen had been revealed. If he ever found a way to report the news, he knew Lady Arkaneth would be pleased.

  Artheris steeled herself for the trial ahead. She sat on a throne of pale stone. It stood on a raised dais of polished marble. Before her, the glittering reception chamber of the embassy stretched away. On either side of her, slender columns rose high towards the soaring curve of the roof. The weak sun was filtered through stained glass windows which threw light of many hues across the smooth floor. Incense burned gently in raised bronze bowls, blocking out the worst of the stench from the human city around the elven quarter.

  Dozens of officials stood below her, murmuring in low voices. The ambassador was amongst them, his face grave. The assassination attempt had broken the fragile air of amity between the races. Poisonous sentiments had been uttered, and many of the young nobles who had come over with the advance force were openly furious. The surviving Swordmasters were tearing throughout the city in defiance of the terms of the alliance, hunting down any trace of druchii. Their pride had been wounded, and a dangerous spirit of revenge had instilled itself into the whole contingent.

  Artheris’s thoughts were broken by a great gong sounding outside the reception chamber. The tall wooden doors at the far end of the hall opened, and the Imperial delegation strode in. The ubiquitous Gerhard was there, but did not lead the party. A tall man wearing heavy armour headed them. Behind him, soldiers of the Reiksguard marched in step. The few officials amongst the group looked cowed and subordinate.

  The elves soundlessly withdrew to let the humans approach the dais. As they came, Artheris felt a pang of pain from her wound. It would heal, but the darts of the druchii were always laced with poison. The worst of it had been drawn by the skilled physicians of the embassy, and her own arts countered what remained. She wondered whether it would be as easy to take the bile out of this situation.

  The leader approached her, and bowed low. He was a huge man, nearly as tall as an elf and far broader. His face was tanned and heavily scarred, and he wore his heavy armour as if it weighed no more than matchwood.

  Good, thought Artheris to herself. A warrior. I’ve had enough of all these officials.

  He raised his face, and fixed the archmage with a direct stare.

  ‘My lady archmage,’ he said. ‘I am Kurt Helborg, Grand Marshal of the Knights of the Reiksguard. I am the right-hand of the Emperor in these matters. He has charged me with conveying his deep regret over what happened. Those responsible have been severely punished.’

  He let his gaze slip briefly towards Gerhard, who shifted uncomfortably, before continuing.

  ‘Let me assure you I have now personally taken control of your safety while you remain in Altdorf. We have no higher priority. A full detachment of my finest Reiksguard have been taken from their duties to bolster your defence.’

  Artheris looked down on the grim-faced warrior serenely. He was obviously a proud man, and needed to be handled carefully.

  ‘Grand Marshal,’ she said, her voice smooth. ‘Your concern is appreciated, as is your offer of help. What happened was unfortunate. Some of our number are dead, as are many of your troops. But such is war. We must all be more vigilant.’

  ‘Your understanding in this matter is welcome,’ Helborg said, inclining his head. ‘The Emperor is greatly concerned for your wellbeing, and hopes to see you in person soon.’

  Artheris was about to reply when a snort of derision came from the ranks of elves.

  ‘How dare he!’ came the voice of Tethmar, a Dragon Prince of Caledor. ‘He should come here, and risk the anarchy of his own streets!’

  A murmur of approval ran around the hall. Helborg visibly bristled, but did his best to respond calmly.

  ‘The Emperor is detained by many matters. Moreover, he is the master of this land, and will not be dictated to by strangers, no matter how mighty.’

  Artheris felt her heart sink. Passions were running high.

  ‘How can a man be master of a land when assassins shelter in the shadows?’ cried a second voice from the elven contingent, a mage called Rasserion. ‘Or maybe he finds the company of druchii more to his liking than us?’

  The Reiksguard company captain, Joachim Stern, stepped forwards then, his face flushed with anger.

  ‘Hold your tongue, cur, or I’ll cut it out!’ he bellowed, his fingers clutching the pommel of his sword. The mage fixed him a look of pure contempt, and raised his staff threateningly.

  ‘Enough!’ roared Helborg, pulling his captain back into line. His anger was evident, but he controlled it well.
‘I did not come here to start a new fight. No one regrets what happened more than I. But we are men of the Empire, and will not be spoken to like children!’

  Artheris admired his spirit. He was no hot-blooded fool, but neither was he withdrawing an inch.

  ‘Well spoken, Grand Marshal,’ she said. There was no magic in her voice. To try and soothe the situation with tricks would be an insult to those around her. ‘You are a valiant servant of Karl Franz, and your deeds are known among us. Forgive my people. I am dear to them, and though you may not think it, we are a passionate race.’

  She turned her head to the assembled elves.

  ‘Asur, you shame me,’ she said. Though her voice was quiet, there was a kernel of ithilmar in her speech. ‘One does not summon an Emperor in his own realm. The ways of the druchii are devious, and we have fallen to their traps before. We may mourn the slain, but be glad the prize eluded them. I am alive, and the muster continues. If we fight amongst ourselves, then their dark purpose has been achieved.’

  Helborg looked at her carefully as she spoke. When she finished, he inclined his head once more in respect. He looked like a man who had expected to encounter a cheap trickster but instead found a master warrior of equal standing.

  ‘Your words shame us all,’ he said. ‘We share blame for what happened. What you say is true. If we become divided, all is lost. But I say to you all, do not scorn the men of the Empire! You are a mighty people, but we have faith and strength forged in steel and drenched in the blood of our forefathers. Soon we will march to war, and all will be put to the test. Only then judge our worth.’

  Helborg’s thick, gruff voice, born of years of service and hardship, echoed around the hall. Even the ambassador Armorel listened carefully. Artheris liked the Grand Marshal more and more. This Helborg was no silver-tongued orator, but his speech carried the weight of a man of honour.

  ‘You will prove worthy,’ said Artheris simply. ‘And so shall we. Whenever men and elves have stood together the forces of Chaos have been repelled. It will be no different this time.’