1 the claws of chaos Read online

  Author's Note

  THE EVENTS OF this book took place during a time of great strife and upheaval in the lands known as the Empire. Following the death of Emperor Mandred at the hands of inhuman assassins, the states of the Empire could not elect a new ruler, and war broke out between several Imperial provinces. This continued for several hundred years, and the period in which the following events took place was known as the Time of Three Emperors, because three of the provincial elector counts had declared themselves rightful Emperor - Stirland, Talabecland and the city state of Middenheim.

  Assailed from outside and divided within, the Empire was all but shattered, the once united states now operating as separate nations. Suspicion and politicking became the rule of the day in the Imperial courts, while the people tried to eke out a living amidst the ruins of the former Empire. Anarchy prevailed, brigands roamed the wilds, vile beastmen stalked the forest roads and the once cosmopolitan people of the Empire became introverted and parochial. With the rulers of the elector states bickering amongst themselves, towns and villages were left to defend themselves, and the purges of orcs, mutants, skaven and other foul creatures fell by the wayside, allowing much of the realm to be overrun. Apocalyptic cults ran rife in the cities, bands of flagellants roamed the countryside with their own doom-laden religions and prophecies. Shrines to Sigmar found their congregations dwindling as the disaffected populace sought salvation from the older gods - Taal, Ulric and even darker powers.

  All dates are in the Imperial calendar, which began with the crowning of Sigmar as the first Emperor.

  PROLOGUE

  THE BODIES OF the dead littered the snow-covered ground. In half a day of bitter fighting, twenty thousand already lay dead or wounded and still the battle raged. Sutenvulf Daemonkin surveyed the carnage with a smile twisting his inhuman lips. The daemon prince stretched out his leathery wings and leapt into the air, his mighty pinions beating slowly, carrying him down the slope where he had been standing. All around was the din of war, a pleasing melody of battle cries and screams: the ring of metal on metal, and his unnatural ears delighted in the sound of axe blade in flesh and sword through bone. The battle had ebbed and flowed for seven hours now, and as the cold northern sun dipped over the eastern mountains, the daemonic general felt it was time to finish off the upstart warriors from the Empire of the south.

  He looked with great pride over the army that he had gathered. Warbands of the gods' champions fought side by side with legions of daemons he had brought forth with his own powerful magic, alongside the savage, undisciplined beastmen, bull-headed minotaurs, scaled dragon ogres and other monsters of the Chaos Wastes. This was his all-conquering force, and when the incursion of the foolish mortals was dealt with, he would sweep further south, sacking and burning, offering up thousands in sacrifice to the Dark Gods who had granted him such power and his immortality.

  Looking with his daemonsight, Sutenvulf could sense the emotions that swirled across the bloodied glacier: the rage of the champions of Khar; the fear of the Imperial Knights as the daemon prince swept towards them; the loathing of the weakling Sigmarite priest who hid behind the armour-clad horsemen; the ferocious, instinctual blood-thirst of the beastmen who hacked and slashed at the halberdiers protecting the Imperial clergyman.

  The daemon prince savoured it all, landing in front of the knights with a great bellow. Opening up his immaterial form to the magical winds that poured from the north, Sutenvulf pulled the power of raw Chaos into himself, feeling invigorated and strengthened. He drew his sword, taller than a man and forged with runes in the Dark Tongue that twisted in on themselves when seen by mortal eyes, and held it above his head. Exerting some of the energy that coursed through his unnatural form, he pushed his power outwards, causing the blade of his daemon weapon to explode with flame. It seemed such a petty feat now, requiring the smallest amount of his power, but the thrill of dread that flowed from the knights and the surge of exaltation from his followers was justification enough for the simple parlour trick.

  The knights spurred their horses forward, lances levelled, their steeds whinnying in terror yet hurtling at him under the unkind urging of their riders. Growling, Sutenvulf pivoted slightly on the ball of his right foot, balancing himself like the practiced swordsman he once had been, his wings furling behind him out of harm's way. He raised his sword to the guard position in a mock salute of the knights thundering towards him, then leapt forward with a gargantuan stride, his clawed feet churning up red-stained snow. Lances shattered on his black-scaled hide, failing to pierce his immortal flesh, and with the speed of a lightning bolt, the daemon prince struck back, a snarl of satisfaction issuing from his throat.

  The flaming blade carved off the head of the first knight, whose horse buckled and fell, passed through the upraised arm and then the chest of the next, the magical flames cauterising the wounds instantly. The sweet aroma of charred flesh filled the daemon prince's nostrils. The backhand sweep sliced a horse in half from shoulder to spine, its head and forelegs spinning into the air, the rider's thigh cleaved in two by the blow, his armour no defence against Sutenvulf's daemonblade. Sword cuts and mace blows glanced harmlessly from the daemon's arms and torso, failing to cause even the lightest of wounds on his magical flesh. Two dozen more knights were carved to pieces by his fell sword; parts of them flung yards into the air, to topple amongst their comrades, panicking the knights and their warhorses.

  Feeling their panic building, Sutenvulf extended his will once more, pushing out a wave of pure malevolence and hatred that washed over the Imperial soldiers in a tide of terror, causing them to falter. One leapt from his horse screaming, clawing at his visored face. Another was crushed as his horse reared and fell backwards, while the man next to him slipped from his saddle to his knees and began gibbering a prayer to his upstart god, Sigmar.

  The knights routed en masse, fleeing before the daemon prince, whose guttural laughs echoed after them.

  The daemon turned his fiery gaze to the halberdiers and the priest who was mounted upon a fine white horse in their midst. He pointed his sword at the priest and uttered a command in the Dark Tongue. Either side of him, the animal-headed beastmen renewed their attacks, hurling themselves forward in a flurry of wild axe blows, flailing maces, gouging horns and biting fangs.

  Then something stirred on the edge of Sutenvulf's daemon vision, drawing his attention away from the hapless priest and his bodyguard. The stench of impure faith was rank in the air as he looked about the battlefield, locating a white glow from which it emanated. Here was their champion, the Sigmarite lapdog who dared to defy the will of the Northern Gods. He would rip the upstart's head from his shoulders with his bare hands and crush his skull with taloned fingers made strong by the power of the Chaos gods. He would teach the soft-bellied southerners which gods ruled the lands, and what manner of warriors fought for them.

  With spiteful glee in his heart, Sutenvulf once more took to the skies on black-skinned wings and drifted on the waves of hate and fear, swiftly gliding over the mounds of the fallen. The Empire soldiers and their fawning Kislevite allies fled before his wrath, but the glowing figure of the Sigmarite champion remained. Anger flared through Sutenvulf's being at the audacity of the mortal, and he plunged down through the air, his sword ready for the killing blow.

  Throwing up fountains of earth, ice and blood, the daemon prince landed before the Imperial leader and snarled a curse in the Chaos tongue; words which lashed the soul to the core. Yet the shining figure that confronted him remained unaffected, standing resolutely, a two-handed hammer in its grasp. The daemon prince towered above his foe, fully three times taller, and spread his wings with a noise like the clap of thunder. He once more exerted his immortal power in a pulse of terror
-inspiring magic, but still the figure remained motionless. Sutenvulf was intrigued, wanting to know more about this courageous mortal who glowed with unholy light. Leaving behind his gift of daemonsight, Sutenvulf regarded his foe with mortal eyes. Looking at the pale, determined faced that regarded him coolly, there was a flicker of remembrance.

  BOOK ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Farewells

  Badenhof, autumn 1708

  THE EARLY MORNING sun was crisp and bright, shining pale and white in a clear sky. The oaks and sycamores in the shrine's yard had all but shed the last of their leaves, carpeting the grass in a layer of golden yellows, russet and brown. There was a touch of frost on the autumn leaves, a glimmer across the grounds that spoke of the bitter winter fast approaching. There had been much talk in Badenhof about the weather, and the old folk shook their heads and claimed that they had never seen such a short summer. Old stories resurfaced of mighty blizzards and harsh winters; the favoured subject of such elderly raconteurs being the famine and winter of 1586, when whole villages starved or froze to death, and the army of Sevir the Blood-terror marched across the Urskoy and attacked the Ostermark. These are troubling times, they complained, a warning from the gods of worse things to come.

  The leaders of the town were worried too, for news had arrived a few months before of a great warband of orcs rampaging in the south. Solland had been all but destroyed, and the army of Stirland, whose rulers were seen as uneasy allies by the people of the Ostermark where Badenhof was found, had been scattered in battle. Now Ostermark stood alone, desperately clinging to independence against the warlike intentions of Talabecland to the west.

  Talabecland's ruler, the Ottilia, had all but declared war on the neighbouring states, and fear gripped the lands, just as uncertainty and outright war had waxed and waned for the last three hundred and fifty years.

  Yet these weighty matters and worldly events did not occupy the thoughts of Ursula Schek as she picked her way through the fallen leaves that morning. The nineteen year old was troubled by news far worse, and far more personal. Her betrothed was leaving again that very morning, to return to Ostermark's capital, Bechafen. It could be months, perhaps the whole winter if it was as bad as expected, before she would see him again. So it was with a heavy heart that she walked along the path that meandered through the dishevelled gardens towards the chapel.

  It was not the largest shrine she had ever seen, nor the most welcoming, but the old stone and timber building lent her confidence that morning. She looked up at the twin steeples, and the golden hammer emblazoned across the east door as she approached. The church was about twice the size of the townhouses that surrounded it, situated within a wide compound of gardens, which in turn were encircled by a shoulder-high brick wall overgrown with moss. The grounds were similarly overgrown, the commemorative stones and weathered statues thick with mouldering vegetation, the grass knee high after months of neglect. Behind her were the outhouses where she lived, three half-abandoned wooden barns supposedly used to store food for the poor, but now empty except for the rough dwelling Ursula had made for herself.

  Scraping what mud she could from the plain shoes she wore, Ursula opened the shrine's doors and stepped inside, kicking off the offending footwear without much thought. She looked down at her toes, stained slightly by the walk from the outhouse just across the yard, and sighed. Flicking a few rebellious strands of long red curls from her face, she looked down the shrine towards the altar. There, in dark stone, was the life-size statue of Sigmar. He exuded strength and confidence, and Ursula smiled to herself, feeling the love of her god in her heart. Stepping lightly between the benches, she walked reverently towards the effigy; its right hand outstretched towards her, holding the great warhammer Ghal-maraz, the Skull Splitter. Sigmar Heldenhammer's handsome bearded face was stern but kind as he watched his approaching worshipper. Ursula liked the statue, it was much nicer than some she had seen, even though they had been gilded or carved from exotic marble or alabaster. It embodied how she saw Sigmar: benevolent yet strong; caring but proud; father and protector.

  Picking up the hem of the blue woollen dress she wore, Ursula knelt before the altar and bowed her head.

  'Great Sigmar, founder and lord of our great lands, I humbly offer my love to you.' she prayed. 'I thank you for keeping me safe in the night and for guarding my soul against the darkness. I give thanks for the water I shall drink and the bread I shall eat today, and for guarding the lives of those who provide it for me.'

  She paused, thinking she had seen a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. Seeing nothing, she dismissed the distraction; it was probably one of the rats that had infested Badenhof since the poor harvest a couple of months earlier. To make matters worse, she had heard that rot had gotten into the grain stores, and now everyone was feeling the pinch just a couple of short months after the harvest.

  'Great Sigmar, forgive my intrusion into your eternal watchfulness.' Ursula said softly. 'I pray that you keep my love safe while he is away, and that my heart remains pure for him while he is gone. I pray that he does brave deeds and acts with honour, just as you did. I also pray that you see fit to speed him back to my arms, for though I love and adore you above everything, on this world he is my only care.'

  Ursula stood, and took from the pocket of her dress a ring of flowers, freshly picked and woven by her own hand into a delicate wreath. Blues and yellows of the last summer flowers mixed with whites and reds of early blossoming winter blooms. She stepped forward, kissed the hammer and laid the wreath about the head, pushing it down so it slid around Sigmar's wrist. It was a ritual she had performed every day of her life that she could remember. When she had been a child, and her grandparents had beaten her, she had sought refuge in the shrine of Sigmar. It had been warm and comforting, and she had seen a wreath about Sigmar's hammer just like the one she had placed today. In thanks for the comfort and succour his shrine had given her, Ursula had sworn that she would repay him with such a gift every day.

  That had been ten years ago, barely months after the death of her parents by the black spite, their lungs rotted, their faces pale and yellow before the shrouds covered them. Every day since, she had kept that promise when she could. Even in the wilds, when she had run away from her tyrannical grandparents, she had made a wreath and laid it on the branch of a tree or a farm hedge to honour Sigmar.

  Looking up from the flowers, troubled by the memory of her orphaned wandering from village to village, and from town to town, she caught sight of the candles behind the altar. They were almost burnt out, but Brother Theobald would be here within the hour to refresh them. He did not mind her small flower offerings, but always shooed her away from performing any of the other tasks. Ursula knew that Theobald tolerated her presence in the outhouse because of his sacred duty, rather than because he felt any genuine sympathy for the foundling.

  The flame on the candle seemed to be growing larger, and Ursula was mesmerised by its flickering and dancing. The burning light grew in her vision, and the rest of the shrine dropped away out of sight. Voices came to her - hoarse cries and fierce bellowing. She saw flames enveloping everything, roaring in their hunger, smoke billowing in massive dark clouds. Bestial figures appeared in the smoke-wreathed fire. Hunched things with shaggy fur and long fangs and wicked claws. There was war and terror in the air, and terrible fear gripped Ursula as the vision grew in clarity. The burning was painfully close, and for a moment, she thought she was on fire and panicked, gasping aloud, though there was no one else in the shrine to hear her. She mumbled to herself, staring at the candle flame, and swayed slightly, her head dizzy.

  Amidst the burning, Ursula could make out a single figure. It was a man, tall and broad, and the flames seemed not to touch him. She thought he was the source of the flames and tried to see his face, but could not make out any details. He strode through the inferno, a long sword in one hand, and a shield in the other. A sudden great wailing arose from the flames themselves, as
if the stranger caused the fire itself pain and fear. Terror swept over Ursula, the need to turn tail and run washed through her, making her physically shake in the grip of her second sight.

  Suddenly, the vision ended and Ursula slumped forwards, grabbing the outstretched arm of Sigmar for support. She looked at his face again and for a moment thought she saw flames flickering in those carved eyes.

  'My love?' she heard a familiar voice from behind her and spun quickly, ignoring her sudden dizziness. 'Are you well?'

  Grinning broadly, the vision pushed from her mind, Ursula ran down the aisle towards the main doors, her feet flapping on the wooden floor, her long plaited hair slapping against her back. Kurt smiled back at her and she all but threw herself into his arms, planting a long kiss on his forehead as she stretched up on tiptoe. His arms encircled her and she closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying his closeness. Realising something was amiss - she could feel the cold touch of metal - Ursula opened her eyes and stood back.

  Kurt was dressed in full plate armour, though she had not noticed it before, still giddy from the vision and her delight at seeing him. She looked up at his face, drinking in the softness of his eyes, his dark hair, his handsome, chiselled features. She ran a finger down the slight cleft in his chin, and then stroked his left cheek with the back of her hand.

  'You're leaving now?' she asked, knowing the answer, her voice quiet.

  'Once I have said goodbye to you, my love,' Kurt replied, his own smile now gone too, but it returned after only a moment. 'The farrier is still readying Heldred, walk with me back to the town square.'

  URSULA WALKED DOWN the muddy, rutted street in comfortable silence with Kurt, and her thoughts turned back to the vision she'd just experienced. It was not the first time, but it had been two years since the last one, ever since she had arrived in Badenhof in fact. The first had been when she was only twelve years old, when she had been hiding out in a small shrine to Sigmar in Kellenbad, in northern Stirland.