CHAPTER THREE
Dramatic shifts in the landscape were not uncommon. Even a hundred years in a land so tainted with magic as Kislev, would result in some changes to topography. But nothing like this.
Standing just outside the entrance to the massive tent erected by his followers, Archaon knew what he should have been seeing from this hilltop when facing south. The city of Kislev, in all its rough-edged splendour and rugged glory, with the rounded tops of the towers that marked every place of worship dedicated to their worthless and weak gods. Its defences would have been stalwart, its garrison costly to fight through.
But his way to the city, even all view of it, was blocked by a stone wall of gargantuan proportions. Its surface was smooth to the touch, and any damage knitted back together like the grotesque healing of a Chaos-tainted enemy. Its top caused the snow-laden clouds to bend and bow before it, forming rolling arcs of white that tipped the grey mass. It looked like the universe had simply slammed down a massive barrier in his path. Any unknowing individual to come across it would likely take it as a sign from their gods and return home.
Archaon knew better. His anger burned towards the aethereal symbol of watery silver light that hung in the air just before the wall; a circle with crisscrossing lines and dazzling icons drawn within. This was no divine intervention, the hand of a god set against him. This was the work of one man, an upstart, gold-loving man from the south who believed himself to be the greatest wizard of the age.
It may have been impressive. It may have stretched from the World's Edge Mountains in the east to the city of Erengrad in the west. But it stood in his way. It was an infuriating, vain attempt to shut out the warhost of the north, the judgement for Men, Elves and Dwarfs.
"Our spies south of the wall report that it is called the Auric Bastion," Szalamund said at his shoulder.
"Have they found out anything helpful?" Archaon snapped.
His lieutenant took a step back, away from his master's wrath. "The magic requirements to keep the wall upright are astronomical. They have hundreds of wizards, maybe thousands, constantly maintaining all the spells, day and night."
Archaon turned his back to the south, before striding into the grand tent. It was full, crowded with a myriad of beings, all of whom had some major role to play in the coming storm. Human, bestial, and daemonic eyes looked towards him as he stepped up to the table in the centre of the tent. A map was stretched out upon its breadth, showing the lands of the north, of Kislev, and the Empire. Someone had marked the map with a thick stripe of something red as blood, following the path of the accursed barrier across the border of the Empire and the last remnants of Kislev.
"We find ourselves at a stalemate," Archaon said, meeting the eyes of every being in the tent. "We could attempt to penetrate this Auric Bastion, but it would cost us valuable resources, including a great many of our warhost. The Empire would be ready with an army at whatever point of the wall we decide to break through."
"Good," said Valkia the Bloody, Dread-Consort of Khorne, with a needle-tooth smile.
"Losses can be replaced," said Kairos, who leant heavily on his staff topped with an open tome of knowledge. "There is no shortage of daemons in the realm of Chaos."
"What options are there for opening other fronts?" asked Wulfric, standing with his arms crossed. "Something to divert their attention away from the north."
"None that would allow for our entire army to use," said Szalamund. "The main army must move through the very gap the Auric Bastion blocks. It is the only one large enough."
"Smaller forces could circumvent it via these very paths you dismiss. We have spent years raiding the coasts of Ostland and Nordland. We could move by sea and strike before they have a chance to redeploy forces from the Bastion."
"Perhaps such a strike could be directed at Bretonnia," the shadowy visage of Be'lakor said, projecting a dim outline of himself from where he led his own campaign, across the other side of the world. "The capture of those lands would allow us to cut off aid from the High Elves."
"Bretonnia is unstable," said Wulfric, "while it is embroiled in civil war."
"No longer," came a gruff grunt from the back of the room. Eyes and heads turned to reveal a scruffy Norscan of no particular prowess or standing.
Archaon noticed Wulfric's hackles go up. The intensively territorial chieftain advanced on what he saw as a threat to his rule. "What was that, thrall?"
"Bretonnia's civil war is finishing," continued the warrior. "Though it is not yet clear who has won."
"Why don't you step outside," snarled Wulfric.
The warrior smiled, just before a glow of blue enveloped his body. It disappeared, to reveal an exact copy of Wulfric the Wanderer standing across from the original.
"Why don't you step outside," the doppelganger repeated, except with mocking contempt in its voice.
The original Wulfric jumped back like a southerner when first exposed to the horrors of daemonic mutation. The copy laughed, a roaring, belly laugh, before the blue glow returned. In its place stood a hooded, floating being, with three arms on one side, and a magic staff held on the other.
The laugh of the Changeling was now a hiss, like the tongues of snakes.
"If Bretonnia's civil war is concluding," Archaon said, "then even a strike against Marienburg is out of the question. The response would be too quick, and too powerful. And even the city itself is well defended. Our only option will be the northern coast."
Archaon turned to the only member of the gathering who had not yet spoken. It had once been a lowly Plaguebearer, but it had ascended the decayed ranks in Nurgle's service. Now it was Epidemius the Tallyman, who kept records of all the Plaguefather's virulent diseases. With a bloated belly, sickly green skin, pus oozing from every orifice, the being was disgusting beyond any measure. Archaon noted with morbid amusement how all the others kept away from that side of the table.
"A devastating plague, and a host of Nurgle, would send fear and panic through the provinces like wildfire."
The daemon swayed, scratching at its yellow boils. There was little difference between its voice and an emptying drainpipe. "Oh yes. Sweet, sweet terror and decay. It would be most easy to accomplish."
"Excellent," Archaon said. Out the corners of his helm, he could see bristling and anger from every other renowned leader of Chaos. They all wanted to be the one selected, the one who would be granted the honour of making the first blow against the Empire. Ignoring the glares further, he tapped the coast of Nordland with an iron gauntlet. "This attack will be a feint. It will give us a chance to explore other opportunities, and hopefully expose a gap in the Empire's defence that we can ruthlessly exploit. Changeling, I want you to go south. Infiltrate the Bastion, see if there is some way to bring it down from that side."
The blue robed daemon bobbed its hood in a nod.
Tonight was an icy night. As if the wind that blew across the Sea of Claws and cast itself upon the port of Dietershafen had come right from the snow-covered land of Norsca. Rembert felt every gust of it through his coat and his uniform. Even when standing right next to the brazier, there were times when the warmth was carried in the wrong direction, and his gloved fingers were steadily getting numb. His eyes felt dry, the wind sucking at every exposed bit of moisture it could squeeze from the edge of the sockets.
He wondered how much longer he could hold onto his spear. Or stand under the weight of a heavy helm and breastplate. Many winters had passed him by, enough that his hair was grey and his skin was creased. He had probably lived through four times as many years as the youngster standing near him.
The army had left weeks ago. All the state troops garrisoned here had left, led by the company of Nordland Mariners, stepping proudly in their blue uniforms with their halberds over one shoulder. Until they were back from the north-eastern border, it fell to the citizen militia to guard the province. That was why Rembert and this boy were standing here on the docks, amidst the forest of dark hulls and tilted masts that the port was turned into by night.
Rembert straightened up, kicking some blood back to the extremities, and gave the boy a closer examination. His cheeks were red from the cold, and every few seconds, he gave a shiver. He had not spoken a single word to Rembert since they were sent to guard this post earlier this evening.
"Hey," Rembert said, through a dry and rough-feeling mouth. "If you're feeling cold, come closer to the fire."
The boy seemed not to have heard him. Rembert knew the wind was not loud enough to drown him out.
"I'm not going to bite. The cold will, though."
The boy finally made eye contact with him. "The commander said I was to stand here."
Rembert rolled his eyes as the boy pointed at his feet. "The commander is not going to remember exactly where he told you to stand. Besides, he's tucked up in a warm bed with his mistress. C'mon."
After a moment, the boy took a few tentative shuffles into the orange glow on the cobblestone pavement.
"That's better. Now you won't freeze. The name's Rembert, by the by."
The boy licked his lips and shivered harder. "Anselm."
"You from town?"
Anselm nodded. "Lower quarter."
"Hmh. Same here. You heard of Raynald's Tavern?"
"I've seen it."
"It's a good place to go and put some hair on your chest."
"I . . . I'm not old enough to drink yet."
"You're old enough to stand watch on the harbour. I think you are definitely old enough to have some ale."
Anselm was smiling now, glowing with pride, though trying to hide it. After a moment of silence, he spoke. "Have you heard of the new defences at the border?"
"You mean the Auric Bastion?" Of course. Who hadn't heard the rumours carried on the tongues of merchants, travellers, and premature refugees.
"Yeah. Someone said that Ulric himself placed it there to protect us."
"Maybe. I've seen some things, though. Magic can do some mind-bending things in the hands of a powerful wizard."
As the boy nodded, a sound rang out over the city; a shrill noise that drowned out the wind and shattered the frozen night air. The great bell atop the lighthouse of Manann's Lantern was clanging. It was said in legend that sometime in the distant past, thousands of years ago, the bell had been hauled up there by enemies who occupied the city, as some monument to a blasphemous god.
Now, the bell rang and rang and rang. It did not signal the passage of hours.
Rembert felt his stomach drop. Anselm's face was turning a shade of sickly pale.
"Enemies?" the boy gasped.
Just like that, the city came alive. Militia soldiers rushed out of streets and taverns, pulling on armour and uniforms. Candles were lit in windows; lanterns blazed to orange life on street corners.
Commander Hilbert ran up to them, barefoot, sword in hand, his breastplate barely attached over the top of his nightshirt. "With me!"
Rembert obeyed. He heard Anselm follow behind him. They scurried along the docks as shouts filled the air and confusion took hold of the town.
A dull thump, followed by a roar overtook everything. Then another. The cannons overlooking the harbour were firing. Rembert had never heard them fired in anger; the only time he could remember hearing their thunderous bellows was in commemoration of the Emperor's election.
There was the rest of the militia unit, gathering at the end of one of the piers, a pack of jumpy and unsure men and boys.
"Form up! Face the pier!" the commander shouted as he reached them. Rembert plunged in among the others as they gathered into the most ordered formation part-time soldiers could manage.
"Spears ready!" Commander Hilbert ordered as he stepped into his position of command at the front of the unit. "Steady men."
Through the bushel of spears before him, Rembert could only just see the pier. The stone platform leading off into the darkness looked like the road to hell. Indeed, it pointed towards the hell of the north. Even with the flashes of gunpowder explosions from the cannons and the torches held by every second man, the sea was engulfed in darkness. He wondered how the gunners knew what to aim for, or even if they knew what they were aiming at.
Amid the whistling shot, there came the sound of another projectile. The noise it made was like it was chewing through the air. It came down somewhere behind them, in the town, with dull blast and the screams of those who could not dodge it.
More shots came from the darkness of the sea. Some flew towards the cannons, others aimed for the town like the first. All trailed a line of green behind them in the darkness, a sickly, vomit-coloured, plague-infused tail for these projectiles. Rembert shuddered to think what would happen if he was struck by one of these.
His imagination was not needed. A volley swung in and obliterated a company of militia gathering at the next pier along. The green clouds flung bodies and limbs in all directions, and burned like acid on those who remained. Men screamed and writhed, some leaping off the docks and into the harbour. Rembert heard someone behind him throwing up. His own paltry meal of bread and cheese began to churn like something alive within his stomach.
"Steady men!" called Commander Hilbert.
The first ship loomed out of the darkness beyond the end of the pier. It was less a ship, more a collection of rotting wood, held together by gargantuan boils and tracks of diseased flesh. Horrid green tentacles, each as wide as a man's height, wiggled in the air, stretching forward to grasp the pier in mockery of a lover's embrace. It groaned and shuddered as it ground against the stone, leaning to one side for a moment, before settling and dropping a ramp down onto the pier.
First came a steady, low-pitched buzz. A sickly grey cloud of motes flooded out of the ship, washing over the men in seconds. It was a cloud of flies, millions of them, darting and swarming at eyes and ears and nostrils. Soon hands were being waved in fits of discomfort to drive away the annoying pests.
The buzz jumped to a higher-pitched drone, and from the decks leapt more flies. Each one was bigger than a cart horse, with a bloated and distended abdomen. They bobbed and wheeled lazily with jerking motions as they zoomed overhead, seeking mischief and prey within the town. Even as they passed, one dropped down, and seized a man in hairy, insectoid legs. He was lifted screaming to the height of a building, before being dropped somewhere behind them, ending with a sickening crunch.
"Steady now!"
Down the ramp of the plague ship poured a horde of disgusting freaks. Small, obese, baby-like creatures moving in groups of six, swirling, jumping, darting, and weaving, in and out and around each other. Behind them loomed tottering one-eyed, horned monstrosities, with feet turned black from gangrene, limbs dangling, skin sickly green and covered in diseases. Only one thing could create such twisted beings: Chaos.
"Spears down!"
The weapons were held forward, the spines presenting a stake-line of bristling points. Rembert was no longer confident that the steel tips would keep this horrifying foe back.
The little creatures swarmed among them; biting at ankles, launching up legs, wrapping around shins and trying to trip up the men. Retaliation came from kicks and stamps, with some even turning their spears down and attempting to impale these small attackers.
But then the taller monsters lurched into the fighting, with rusted, wickedly serrated blades swinging high. Total disorder descended.
"Hold, men!" Those were Commander Hilbert's last words. He lunged forward, stabbing the monster in front of him in the chest. Surely a mortal blow. But the Chaos creature simply brought its blade down, which slammed into the man's shoulder, cutting down until it was halfway through the torso. Hilbert screamed, or at least tried to. Instead, all that came out was a wet gargle as he pitched forward and was buried under the swarm of knee-high creatures.
Another monster staggered forward right in front of Rembert. He stabbed with his spear, aiming for where a heart should be on a human. The spearhead sank into flesh that had the same give as a sponge. The creature looked down at the injury and the weapon. Then it met Rembert's gaze with its singular, rheumy eye. Pale, yellowy maggots wriggled around the edge of the lids, waving blindly in the air.
The creature grinned, revealing rotting, pointed teeth. A decomposing hand grasped the shaft of the spear, and pulled the weapon deeper, sliding along its length towards Rembert. Its teeth parted, and a mound of writhing maggots within. A long tongue lolled within, lifting up the worms and dropping them again.
Rembert threw up. His head jerked forward and down, and the orange soupy mess of bread and cheese splattering on the cobblestones. Even as he stared at the mess in shock, the battle forgotten, horrified by the way parts of it started to move and wriggle, a burbling voice rang in his ears.
"The First and Second pox from the Rotten Generation. Aye, the Third and Ninth, the Fifth and Twentieth. Carry the one, and the Sixteenth virulent from the Toad's Generation. From the Spot Generation, the..."
The first flames caught alight in the coastal town of Dietershafen.