Tales of the Old World (46 page)

Markus rose to consciousness with a shriek, awakening from a nightmare filled
with hoarse battle cries and blood-chilling screams. His heart hammered on the
anvil of his chest, and his breathing was laboured and heavy. His head reeled
and a feeling of utter horror swept through him. Not daring to open his eyes for
a moment, unsure of what might await him, Markus paused to take a deep breath
and fumble the sweat from his brow with his aching arm. His sleeve was ragged
and damp, and left a warm smear upon his forehead.

As his stomach settled and his nausea subsided, Markus opened his eyes
slowly, terrified that the visions from which he had woken would be true. His
attention was immediately drawn to the corpses scattered all around him and he
knew that his nightmare was real. The crows had returned and he watched in
disgusted fascination as they gnawed at bones and pecked at tender eyes and
other soft delicacies. Markus felt his stomach heave at the sight, but as he
retched nothing but bile rose up, burning his throat and leaving an acrid taste
in his mouth.

Markus turned his head to take in the huge white shape lying alongside him
and he groaned aloud. His beautiful war-horse had been a gift from a captain of
the Tzarina’s Winged Lancers, given to him in grateful thanks for the many
blessings he had bestowed upon the captain’s warriors. The white mare lay still,
legs stiff and lifeless eyes open, a gaping, leaking wound in her side providing
a feast for a swarm of vermin.

As he tried to rise, Markus whispered to his four-legged companion, though
she would never hear his words. “Farewell, faithful Alayma…”

As he sat, pain lanced through Markus’ left leg, making him fall back, a
startled cry ripped from his lips. The pain brought back a flash of memory.

The hideous war cries of the beastmen surrounded Markus on all sides. A
rust-edged halberd blade thrust out of the swirling melee engulfing him and
caught a glancing blow on his armoured shoulder. There was a movement in the
press, like a wave coming towards him. The swordsmen all around him were being
pushed back as an enormous bestial figure, a brutal mace gripped in its clawed
hands, strode forward, crazed eyes fixed solely on the priest. Markus raised his
hammer in defiance, but his heart quivered as he looked into that monstrous,
bull-like face.

Then Alayma took over, his mount more highly trained in war than Markus
himself. Rearing high on her back legs, her steel-shod hooves flailed into the
beastman’s face, smashing it to a pulp. Twisting slightly as she landed again,
the mare bucked, kicking out behind her with her powerful legs to send another
mutant foe sprawling to the ground, its chest crushed. Without waiting for
guidance the mare turned and leapt through the newly created gap, carrying
Markus clear. As he dared a glance over his shoulder, he saw the last of the
Imperial swordsmen falling beneath the blades of the Chaos beastmen and, as he
had done so many times, silently thanked Alayma for saving his life.

More gingerly this time, Markus managed to raise himself up on his elbows and
noticed for the first time the extent of his predicament. In her death throes,
Alayma had rolled onto his leg, crushing it beneath her weight. The grim truth
slowly dawned on him and he whispered a prayer to Sigmar.

He was all alone on this blighted field of death, trapped beneath the heavy
body of the war-horse—and easy prey for whatever creatures the
fast-approaching night would bring. The thought that Alayma, who had saved his
life, would now be the cause of his death, lay bitterly at the back of Markus’
mind. With a sigh of despair, the priest of Sigmar tried to recall what twists
of fate had brought him to such an unlikely end.

It had been a fine spring day when Markus had joined the Emperor’s glorious
army. For weeks before there had been increasing rumours of a large enemy force
marauding through the northern reaches of Kislev. Stories abounded of the
depraved Chaos horde, emphasising its merciless butchering and unholy acts of
destruction.

Word came through that the Tzarina herself had requested aid of the Emperor,
and shortly after came the messengers of Elector Count von Raukov announcing the
mustering of an army. The recruiters came to Stefheim a week later, calling upon
all able-bodied men to join in this righteous fight.

Markus had not been drawn in by the well-crafted speeches, drafted to stir
men’s hearts and make them feel honoured and courageous beyond their normal
bounds. However, as he had watched the congregations of his sermons daily swell
in size, and noticed the fervent look in his followers’ eyes, he felt his own
faith in Sigmar strengthening. The sacrifice of the normally peaceful townsfolk
and farmers stirred Markus far more than any amount of fiery rhetoric. The
humble peasants had looked to Sigmar for guidance and protection, and Markus had
felt beholden to help them.

Before the newly-recruited soldiers of the Empire marched off to war in their
ill-fitting new uniforms, Markus sent a message to Altdorf notifying his
superiors that a replacement would be needed. When the tramp of marching feet
reverberated through the hills of Ostland, Markus’ tread had sounded with it.

A sudden movement close by made Markus snap out of his reverie. A fat, black
rat, well-gorged on flesh and slick with the fluids of corpses, had tugged at
his robe and was now attempting to gnaw at his shattered leg. The priest looked
around for some form of weapon, but could find nothing close at hand. Flinging
his arms about him, Markus shouted hoarsely.

“Begone! Feast upon the dead. I’m still alive, you vermin!”

Startled, the rat scuttled under the broken neck of Alayma in search of a
quieter feast. Seeing his mare’s neck so strangely angled brought back another
rush of memory to Markus.

With a rousing blare of horns sounding the attack, the Knights Panther and
Tzarina’s Winged Lancers charged the vile black-clad horde, spitting hundreds of
deformed adversaries on their lances within a few minutes. As the impetus of the
knights’ charge was spent, the crazed enemy army surged back. A wave of deformed
creatures bellowing in bizarre tongues smashed into the Empire and Kislev’s
finest cavalry and a sprawling melee erupted.

To Markus, things looked grim, as they were assailed from all sides by the
demented followers of the Dark Gods. However, the armour of the knights was
holding out and they smashed and thrust at the enemy with their swords or the
butts of lances, holding the sudden onslaught.

Then something unimaginably ancient and terrible rose up amongst the ranks of
Chaos warriors and beastmen. The hideous creation, born of the darkest
nightmares, stood thrice the height of a man and bellowed orders in some arcane
tongue that did not need to be understood to strike fear into the hearts of all
who heard it.

“Blood of Sigmar…” whispered the leader of the halberdiers deployed to
Markus’ right.

The priest turned in his saddle and scowled at the hoary veteran. “Watch your
tongue, sir! This unholiness has nothing to do with Sigmar, but is the spawn of
depraved and mindless enemies.”

The daemon’s massive horns gouged armour apart while its claw-tipped hands
wreaked a red swathe through all who tried to stand before it. The almost
tangible aura of violence and malevolence that preceded it caused the Knights to
retreat rather than face its unnatural vigour and savagery.

Faced with such unholy wrath, the men of the Empire began to give ground. As
the monstrosity continued to carve a bloodied path of destruction through the
ranks, the retreat turned into a rout and the brave soldiers turned to flee.
Markus stood up in his stirrups and tried to rally the desperate men with
prayers of courage and steadfastness. He had sworn to Sigmar that he would face
these foes, and even if all around him was anarchy he would fight on, alone if
he must.

“Hold fast!” he cried. “As your lord and protector, Sigmar will see you
through this carnage!”

It was to no avail and the panicked horde swept around him, embroiling him in
a tumult of screams and pressing bodies. As the crying mass of men packed
tighter and tighter, Alayma panicked and tried to force a way free, but there
was no line of retreat.

Suddenly hands were grabbing at the reins and desperate faces lunged out of
the throng, intent on stealing what they thought was the only route to safety—Markus’ steed. Gnarled fingers closed around the priest’s robes and tugged at
him, and he felt himself falling. Markus kicked out at a bearded face and it
disappeared into the crowd. He tried one last attempt to restore sanity.

“Hold! Sigmar is with us! These abominations cannot harm us if our faith is
strong. Victory to the Empire! Attack!”

Markus’ last words were drowned out by an unearthly bellowing and the
screams of the dying came ever closer. Over the heads of the Empire soldiers he
glimpsed the scaled form of the daemon prince. Its massive eyes were pits of
darkness and a pile of battered bodies was heaped around it. It was so close now
that Markus could smell the fear that crept before it.

A blade caught Alayma and she reared, whinnying. Knocked off balance by the
press of fleeing soldiers, she toppled to the ground, crashing men beneath her
weight. Markus heard a cracking sound, audible even over the hoarse cries of the
panicked mass. He was scrabbling about in the blood-soaked mud when a boot
struck his forehead. Darkness descended beneath unseen trampling feet.

With a start, Markus realised that the blow that had torn a rent in his
horse’s side must have come much later, when the victors spilled across the
battlefield, hacking and ripping at everything they could find. Sigmar had been
merciful and somehow he had avoided a killing blow while he lay oblivious to the
world. At that moment, though, the baying of wolves reverberated across the
surrounding hills and Markus corrected himself—he was not safe yet.

A shadow crossed him as something blotted out the setting sun. Turning his
head in surprise, the priest saw a bulky figure silhouetted against the western
sky, picking its way through the carnage. Markus’ throat was too dry to call
out but he managed a croak and lifted his arm to wave at the approaching figure,
silhouetted against the deep red glare.

“Over here, friend!” he called. “Thank Sigmar, I thought none alive but
myself.”

The man turned abruptly and strode towards Markus. However, far from
relaxing, the priest tensed as the figure came closer. He walked directly
towards Markus with a determined stride that unnerved the priest. Markus thought
that anyone wandering this blighted place would surely be wary of more Chaos
followers lurking nearby.

As the shadowy figure came closer, the priest could pick out more details.
The man was clad in thick armour and a horned helmet, and all about him were
hung dire symbols of power, sigils of the Ruinous Powers proclaiming his status
and allegiances. Otherworldly runes were engraved into the black enamelled
chest-plate, inscriptions of protection and power that writhed with their own
energy, written in a language no normal mortal could speak. It was plain the
newcomer was no saviour.

Markus’ heart fluttered and he straggled frantically to pull himself clear
from Alayma’s heavy corpse. Pain lanced through Markus’ leg again and he
collapsed on his back, whimpering despite himself.

Muttering entreaties to Sigmar, Markus tried to calm his ragged breathing and
studied the approaching figure, who was just ten strides from him. He tried to
speak, but his throat, dry with fear, just made a cracked, croaking noise. The
dark warrior now stood perhaps three paces away, not moving at all. Dark eyes
glittered inside the helm’s strangely shaped visor, staring at the priest with
unblinking intensity.

As his own eyes took in the immense scabbard hanging at the warrior’s waist,
Markus recoiled in fear, expecting a deathblow to come swinging down with every
thunderous beat of his heart.

Markus flinched when the warrior reached up with a gauntlet-covered hand, but
the death blow did not fall. The stranger gripped the single horn protruding
from the forehead of his helmet, then wrenched the helm free and let it drop to
the ground.

Markus blinked in disbelief. The man in the bizarre armour was startlingly
normal. His chin and nose possessed an aristocratic line, his dark eyes more
amused than menacing without the confinement of the helmet’s visor. The warrior
looked straight into Markus’ eyes and smiled. An icy shiver of fear ran through
the priest. That seemingly benign expression terrified him more than the
slaughter that had occurred earlier, or even the horrifying carnage wrought by
the daemon prince.

The terror he felt was wholly unjustified and unnatural, and his spine
tingled with agonising horror, though Markus could not fathom why the warrior
was so frightening. This was no vile daemon from the
Liber Malificorum,
but a normal man. For some reason, this just increased Markus’ panic and his
whole body trembled with every shallow breath he managed to gasp.

When the Chaos warrior spoke, he found himself listening carefully and—despite the awful predicament he was in—trying to place the man’s accent. He
thought it might be from the Reikland, but the intonation and phrasing of the
stranger’s words seemed slightly mispronounced and somehow archaic.

“Are you afeared?” the sinister figure began. “Does your blood coldly run
with the sight of myself?”

Markus swallowed hard, and tried to look as defiant as possible. “You don’t
scare me, foul lapdog of evil! My master protects me from the ravages of your
desperate gods.”

The dark warrior laughed, a deep, disturbing sound. “But of course you must
have divine protection.” He looked around himself extravagantly. “Amongst this
slaughter you alone lie alive and breathing, spared the fate ordained for your
countrymen. However, could it not be that someone other than your master has
stayed the hands of your attackers?” The warrior lowered one knee into the
crimson-stained earth and leaned forward to whisper in Markus’ ear. “Is your
master so strong he could hide your presence from the gaze of the Lords of
Chaos?”