Mark of Chaos (14 page)

Ulkjar was careful whenever he was under the scrutiny of his followers - always he was conscious to give off the aura of power, and of being the one in control. If he was not, then he knew he would constantly have to watch his back, and fight the inevitable challenges to his position from amongst his own tribe. He would have none of that. No, he would exert his dominance over this warrior before him, in front of both their tribes. If he could provoke Hroth, draw him into a conflict and defeat him, then those tribes must submit themselves to him.

'I will take your head, Norscan filth,' growled Hroth.

'Will you indeed, whelp?' answered Ulkjar. He was comfortable and relaxed. How many times had this same encounter played out in the past? He had long since lost count of the enemy champions he had slain. This would be no different. The chosen was powerful, true, but that would just make this victory that much sweeter. He would claim the chosen's army
once
he was done with him, and force the sorcerer to take him to where the sword of Asavar Kul resided. Then, none could stand against him. The days of blood would begin once again. Truly he was blessed in the eyes of the gods, he thought.

'I will cut you limb from limb, Kurgan.' said Ulkjar. 'I will feed your blood to the daemon within my ship. I will take your army from you. A new era of bloodshed and terror will begin, and you will not be a part of it.' he said matter of factly, and drew his pair of swords.

'Less talk. Let your blades speak for you.'

'As you wish, whelp.'

Sudobaal smiled as the two warriors readied themselves for battle. He cared not who won this contest, and he had known that it was going to happen as soon as he had made the decision to contact Ulkjar's shamans in his dream-journeys. He had never had any doubt that Ulkjar would challenge Hroth. He was too proud and too successful a warlord to willingly submit to anyone, let alone a Kurgan. He would not care if Hroth was cut down. Ulkjar was strong-willed, but Sudobaal knew that he would be easier to manipulate than the Khazag chosen. Hroth was just too damn stubborn. He had no doubt that the Norscan was more subtle and devious than Hroth - certainly he knew how to impress his followers. Hroth's stubbornness was also his strength, however. The chosen of the Khazags did not know how to back down to anything, and he was completely single-minded in his determination. His lack of subtlety, his straightforward directness, was a powerful thing.

It was probably for the best, thought Sudobaal, that he would be slain. He wondered if he had misjudged Hroth - would he have become too difficult to handle, had his power continued to grow? Certainly Sudobaal had already found it increasingly difficult to influence the champion of Khorne. The sorcerer pushed the thought from his mind, and focused back on the contest.

Sudobaal remembered some wise old warlord saying that a battle between sword and axe was a contest that could never last long. As the warriors began to trade blows, he knew that this would hold true today.

Ulkjar was faster than Hroth, and had a longer reach. Hroth was shorter, but more powerful than the Skaeling. Where the Norseman fought with a slow-burning, cold fury, Hroth's anger was hot and fiery, and his fighting style reflected this. Every blow was filled with the power of his anger. Each of his attacks was intended to end the fight. Ulkjar moved with fluid grace, like a mountain lion. He blocked the lethal attacks of his foe and lashed out with lightning-fast counter-attacks, each cutting deeply. He intended to cut his enemy down piece by piece, wearing him down slowly until he could make the killing blow.

A vision flashed into Sudobaal's mind, and he dropped to his knees clutching at his temples. The two warriors battled on, ignoring him. Searing pain stabbed at him as the vision unfolded. He saw a battlefield littered with corpses. He saw the walls of a mighty city of the Empire falling. He saw a laughing daemon picking the eyes from a corpse. He saw Ulkjar and Hroth, fighting back to back. A dark robed figure was there. Himself. There was a glowing figure that hurt Sudobaal's eyes to gaze upon, a burning hammer held in its hands. Fire surrounded the hammer as he wielded it, and twin tails of flame followed in its wake. A black arrow came streaking through the press of battle, heading straight towards the vision of himself. Sudobaal screamed a warning, but his double could not hear him. He was about to witness himself being slain. He screamed again, but there was no reaction, no sound. As the arrow homed in on its target, scant feet from striking him in the back of the head, the vision of Ulkjar stepped forwards, inadvertently stepping into the path of the missile.

Sudobaal snapped out of the vision. Blood was dripping from his nose and his ears. He knew what the vision had shown him. Whatever occurred here, Ulkjar must live, or else, he himself would die.

Ulkjar plunged one of his blades into Hroth's side, the sword punching through armour and flesh. Seeing an opening, he thrust his other sword at the exposed throat of the Khazag. Realising his error a fraction later, he tried to reverse the thrust and step back, but it was too late. Hroth was already dropping to one knee as the Norscan surged forwards, swinging his axe around horizontally in a vicious arc. His other sword was stuck in the Khazag's side, so he could not defend against the blow, and Ulkjar knew that Hroth had taken that injury deliberately.

The axe smashed into Ulkjar's belly as he moved forwards, and the force of the blow was enough to cleave a horse in two. Ulkjar felt the axe blade cut through his belly, passing through his armour and flesh before hitting his spine. To Hroth it was like hitting stone, and the axe jarred in his hands, unable to hack through the iron-like bone. Still, the Norscan sank to the sand, awash with blood.

The two thousand Norse stood motionless. On the other side of the beach, thousands of voices erupted, chanting Hroth's name over and over again. All of them knew of Ulkjar, and to see him humbled by their champion was a sign of the gods favour.

Hroth, his eyes flaming, stepped forwards to finish the Norscan. Already, Ulkjar was pushing himself to his feet, his wounds closing. He stood tall, although he carried no weapons, and regarded the victor coldly.

'Truly you are the chosen of the Blood God.' he said, his head held high, waiting for the blow that would end his life.

Sudobaal staggered forwards, stepping in between the two warriors. Hroth's eyes blazed.

'Step out of my path, sorcerer. His skull belongs to me.' growled the chosen of Khorne.

'His skull belongs to the gods of Chaos, and the gods of Chaos demand that he lives; for now.' said Sudobaal, wiping the blood from his nose. 'He has a role to play yet.'

'What is this madness?' barked Ulkjar. 'You bested me, Hroth the Blooded. Finish it now. Give me that honour.'

'Do not do it, Khazag. It would anger the gods,' snarled Sudobaal, 'and it would anger me.'

Hroth battled with himself. He wanted to smash the sorcerer aside and claim the Norscan's skull. It was his right.

He swung away from Sudobaal and the Norscan, and he heard Ulkjar curse him. Rage boiling within him, he stalked towards the two brothers of Ulkjar who were standing nearby, their faces pale. Seeing the fury within the chosen of Khorne, they made to draw their swords, but they were too slow. In a moment, they were both dead, their bodies falling to the ground, pumping blood across the sand.

Hroth continued forwards, stalking across the sand towards the two thousand stunned Norsemen. Breathing heavily, Hroth glowered at them.

'You
men, Skaelings of Ulkjar.' he roared. 'You are my men now. You live or die as I wish it.'

'You!' he shouted, pointing out one particularly large, bearded Skaeling. 'Pick out one man from every ship, and bring them to me.' The man hurried to his task. Within minutes, there was a line of almost fifty men standing before Hroth. None of them would meet his gaze. He stood before the first man in the line.

'Kneel.' he snarled. The man dropped to his knees before Hroth. Without ceremony, and using all his immense strength, he smashed his axe down onto the man's neck. The man's head rolled across the sand, spraying blood. Hroth stepped before the next man. 'Kneel.' he snarled. Leaving the man kneeling before him, Hroth strode back to Ulkjar and stood glaring up at him.

'Ulkjar Headtaker, you are a dead man. Your skull belongs to me, and I will claim it.' Hroth snarled. He stepped forwards, biting his thumb between his sharp teeth. He pressed the bloody thumb hard into the taller man's forehead, making the flesh hiss. The Norscan did not flinch. Removing his hand, Hroth held Ulkjar's gaze. 'You are marked. Your skull
will
be mine.'

Hroth swung to glare hatefully at Sudobaal. The sorcerer returned the stare, saying nothing. Without another word, Hroth stalked back towards the kneeling Skaeling warrior and hacked his head from his body. Hroth lifted the head by its hair, threw it alongside the first, and moved to the next man in line. 'Kneel.' he snarled.

Two hours later, the Norse ships were being pushed back into the icy black sea, and the pale moon of Mannslieb rose high in the sky above. Hroth stood on the deck of the largest ship, his arms folded across his chest. Sudobaal and Ulkjar stood at his side. Most of the army had been left behind, all bar Hroth's Khazags and Ulkjar's Norse, waiting for their return.

Hroth watched the land slip into the darkness, his eyes locked on the flames blazing high on the sand. Fifty skulls were piled in the centre of the massive pyre, and the flames were mirrored in the flames in his eyes.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Stefan von Kessel
stood before the small mirror in his tent, a bowl of warm water placed on the table in front of him. He was stripped to the waist, and he looked at the wound on his side. The chirurgeons had stitched it as best they could, but blood seeped from the wound. It mattered not, he thought. Countless other scars were etched on his chest and stomach. He bore no scars on his back, he noted, with a certain amount of pride.

Dipping his blade into the warm water, von Kessel continued to shave his face. The scars he bore on his face made shaving difficult and time-consuming. The scars were ugly, three thick lines that crossed his face linked together with an arc running from above one eye across his forehead and down the side of his face, ending on his chin. Albrecht had once asked him why he shaved at all. A beard would cover up much of the scarring, he had remarked. Von Kessel had answered that he had nothing to hide. He wondered if that was really true.

Every time he looked in a mirror, he was reminded of his grandfathers shame. He would carry this shame to his deathbed, he knew, but at least he was alive. He wondered if the same could be said for his father. His mother had died giving birth to Stefan, but his father had lived on. When the treachery of Stefan's grandfather had been discovered, his father had been cast out of Ostermark. His face had been burnt, and the witch hunters had put out his eyes. They had given him thirty days to leave the Empire altogether. If he was discovered within its borders after that time, he would be slain as a traitor.

Stefan had no brothers or sisters. He was the last in his family line.
The merciful elector
,
Gruber had been called by the people of Ostermark once he had been chosen to take up the position. It was his mercy that had spared the life of Stefan and his father. He had argued passionately for their lives with the witch hunter, who had wished to burn all the bloodline of the treacherous previous elector. It had been part of Gruber's duty to care for the young Stefan, and raise him within his own household. Every couple of years, the witch hunter would check in on Stefan, examining his body for signs of the taint, and speaking to him endlessly, assessing his state of mind. It was only through von Kessel's faith in Sigmar that he had been spared.

Pushing such thoughts from his mind, Stefan finished shaving and dried his face. Dressing quickly, he buckled on his armour, doused the lantern and left his tent. It was dark, and the camp was lit with countless burning torches. Moving through the camp, he walked purposefully to the tent of the reiksmarshal, Wolfgange Trenkenhoff. A pair of the legendary Reiklandguard knights, standing guard, nodded at him as he approached. He waited outside the tent until the reiksmarshal emerged, and saluted his superior.

'Let us meet with these elves, then,' the reiksmarshal said, and they began the walk through the camp towards the crumbling castle perched on the hill.

'These are important allies of the Empire, remember,' continued the reiksmarshal. 'They are haughty and arrogant and proud, but always remember that they are important allies. As you know, we would have been overrun and destroyed had they not aided us in the Great War.'

'You are blunt and straightforward, von Kessel,' said the reiksmarshal, and Stefan felt his face burn. He felt like he was back in his classes. 'I value these qualities in you; but you are also quick to anger, and speak your mind, often without thought. You will not do so today. The elves are not human; they have a different set of values than our own. They are easily offended, and we cannot afford to alienate them here today.'

'Watch what you do, and for Sigmar's sake think about what you say before you say it,' said the reiksmarshal as they neared the gatehouse. 'Actually, don't say anything much at all, captain.'

A pair of elves stood by the entrance to the gatehouse. The castle was lit up, but not with the orange light of torches. Delicate lanterns hung beside the gate, and cold blue light emanated from within them, although Stefan could see no flame. The drawbridge was lowered, and the portcullis raised. Stefan stared at the elves, having never seen one of them up close before.

They were tall and slender, taller than he was, but far lighter and more delicate. They looked as if their bones would shatter under a heavy blow, he thought. Their limbs were long and elegant, and their faces were slender, with high cheekbones. Their eyes were almond-shaped and sharp. They wore long scaled armour that hung almost to the ground, and elongated silver helmets covered their heads. Tall shields emblazoned with green dragon heads rising from turbulent water were strapped over their left arms, and in their right hands they held long white-hafted spears. The shield tips were teardrop-shaped. All the metal that they wore and carried was a strange white-silver, unlike any metal that he had ever seen before. The elves glared coldly at the approaching humans, but let them pass without a word.