The Ambassador

  The silence stretched and Kaspar felt his anger drain from him as the realisation of what he had just said and to whom he had just said it finally penetrated the fog of his anger.

  He looked into the cold, unforgiving eyes of the Ice Queen of Kislev and waited for her to turn him into a frozen statue. Slowly, and with great deliberation, she stood and walked towards him.

  She halted before him and leaned forward until the chill of her nearness was almost too much to bear.

  The Ice Queen smiled and whispered, 'Very good, Herr von Velten.'

  'What?' blurted Kaspar, amazed that he was still alive.

  'Walk with me.' she said, linking her burningly cold arm with his and leading him back through to the main stairs, leaving scores of bemused and astonished people behind them. Pjotr Losov tried to follow, but with a single raised hand, the Ice Queen stopped him.

  Kaspar passed Pavel, who merely shrugged and rolled his eyes.

  He and the Ice Queen walked in silence from the hall until they were out of earshot of those left behind in the hall. The Ice Queen stopped before the gigantic portrait of her father, Radii Bokha, sat astride the monstrous bear, Urskin. She stared up at the portrait and to Kaspar, it seemed as though her expression softened.

  'Why aren't you freezing the blood in my veins?' asked Kaspar eventually.

  The Ice Queen chuckled. 'As I am sure you know, Alexander was a waster and there are few who will shed tears over his death, save perhaps his creditors and a string of foolish women carrying his bastard children. Why do you think he was sent to the Empire if not to get him from my sight?'

  'Then why go through that charade back there?'

  'Come now, Herr von Velten, do not play the innocent with me.' said the Tzarina. 'I may have detested my cousin, but I must give the appearance of having been grievously wounded by his death.'

  'Well, congratulations. You did an admirable job of making me look like a cantankerous, foul mouthed ruffian.' groused Kaspar.

  The Ice Queen laughed at his obvious discomfort and said, 'My father was fond of saying that he would never trust a man who was afraid to lose his temper. As a result, his boyarin were an insufferable band of brutes, always brawling, always arguing and always fighting. But they were loyal, honest and true, and never did a greater band of warriors ever fight shoulder to shoulder. That saying stood my father in good stead, so I see no reason not to trust it also, ambassador.'

  'You were trying to make me angry?'

  'Of course.'

  'Why?'

  'I knew your predecessor, Teugenheim.' explained the Ice Queen. 'He was a weasel and a coward and only came to Kislev to advance his own career. I know that this is not an attractive posting compared to some, but it is an important one, one that requires a man of a certain temperament. Andreas Teugenheim was not that man, but I believe that you might just be.'

  'A man who loses his temper?'

  'No.' said the Ice Queen. 'A man with fire in his heart and the soul of a Kislevite.'

  Now it was Kaspar's turn to laugh. 'The soul of a Kislevite? I fear I am too much a son of the Empire for that.'

  'You are wrong, Kaspar von Velten. You have fought for Kislev before and you are here in her time of greatest need. The land has called you back here to fight for her and I do not believe you will fail.'

  This was too much for Kaspar to take in. 'The land called me here? No, the Emperor sent me here.'

  The Ice Queen shook her head. 'No. Whether you believe it or not is irrelevant, you answered the call of the land. Of that I am sure. Come the moment, come the man. You were meant to be here and there is much for you yet to do.'

  'Like what?'

  'I have no idea.' confessed the Ice Queen with a cold smile. 'That's for you to find out.'

  IX

  'Pavel still not believe we not dead.'

  'I'm not so sure I believe it myself.' said Kaspar as they rode down the alleyway leading back to the embassy. The bronze-armoured knights had provided them with safe passage through Kislev, the mob that had attacked them earlier vanishing like morning mist before these fearsome warriors. The wounded members of Kaspar's entourage followed behind in a cushioned wagon, while he rode a fresh horse from the Ice Queen's stables, a dun gelding that was easily the equal of the beast that had been lost in Geroyev Square.

  There had been no sign of his battered coach, its smashed timbers no doubt burning on someone's fire, its fine fabrics stuffed inside layers of grubby clothing for extra warmth. Kaspar did not mourn its loss; he had never liked travelling in it anyway.

  The ride back had been uneventful, but as he handed the reins of his mount to a waiting stable lad, and limped towards the embassy, he could sense that something was wrong from the tense expressions of the guards at the door.

  They opened the door for him and he made his way upstairs to his study.

  Inside he found Kurt Bremen and the Chekist, Vladimir Pashenko, awaiting him.

  Before Pashenko could say anything, Kaspar addressed Bremen. 'What's happened?' he demanded.

  'Something bad,' warned Bremen.

  'Don't play games, man, whatever it is, spit it out.'

  'There was an attack on Matthias Gerhard's home earlier today. One of my knights is dead and another badly wounded,' said Bremen.

  The knight took a deep breath and said, 'Stefan is dead.'

  Kaspar felt his stomach lurch and his face flushed as he felt a heartbreaking grief well up inside him. Stefan. His oldest comrade from the ranks, the man who had taught him everything he had needed to know to survive as a soldier. Dead. It had to be some kind of mistake. Stefan was too stubborn to be dead.

  But as he saw Bremen's solemn face he knew there was no mistake. It was true.

  'What about Sofia?' he asked, desperately afraid for her, but afraid of the answer even more. 'What about Sofia, damn it?'

  'I don't know.' said Bremen slowly. 'What the hell do you mean, "You don't know"?' 'I mean that there's no sign of her or Matthias Gerhard. They're both gone.'

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I

  Kaspar knelt beside the blood-spattered bed, twisting the fabric of its red and gold silk sheets in frustration and grief. Broken glass lay strewn about the floor of Matthias Gerhard's bedroom and several pieces of furniture had been overturned and smashed to matchwood. A grand mirror in its carved mahogany frame lay in splinters, each jagged, reflective shard throwing back the faces of the men that gathered in this abattoir and multiple images of the words written in blood upon the walls.

  Blood coated almost every surface, the floor, the walls and even the ceiling.

  Kaspar looked up at the daubings on the wall opposite the bed. The bloody words had been written in a childlike hand in halting, grammatically incorrect Reikspiel, and Kaspar knew the macabre graffiti must have been written while Stefan lay dying.

  It read: 'It all was her for.'

  Stefan had died in this room and Sofia had been... what? Abducted? Killed?

  The fear of what Sofia might even now be suffering was a physical pain in Kaspar's chest and, while they had only known each other a few months, they had slipped easily into the familiarity of old friends, and the thought of her in pain scared him more than he imagined possible.

  Vladimir Pashenko pointed to a huge plum-coloured stain on the expensive carpeting next to Kurt Bremen, its fabric now matted and stinking with blood.

  'That is where we found your manservant. It would appear that he died from a single wound to the throat that severed the main artery in his neck.'

  'His name was Stefan.' growled Kaspar.

  'Indeed.' continued Pashenko. 'Whoever killed him used an exceptionally sharp blade and knew exactly where to strike.'

  'Or took them by surprise, which seems unlikely given that the door to the house has been broken down and my knights had made their way downstairs to fight the bastard.' said Kurt Bremen, furious at having two of his warriors defeated with such apparent ease. One knight lay beneath a shroud in the temple
of Morr, while the other would probably lose his leg below the knee.

  'The wound in his neck is the only injury that was done to the victim.' went on Pashenko, reading from a black leather notebook. 'There were no defensive wounds.'

  'Defensive wounds?' asked Kaspar, pulling himself to his feet.

  'Yes, when someone is being attacked by a person armed with a knife, they typically raise their hands in front of them to ward off the blows, and they are often found missing fingers or with their forearms slashed to ribbons.'

  'But Stefan had none of these?' asked Kaspar.

  Pashenko checked his notes. 'No, none at all.'

  'Do you have any idea why that might be?'

  Pashenko shrugged. 'I do not know. Perhaps the killer was so swift in his attack that his victim had no chance to defend himself.'

  Kaspar nodded. 'Have you found anything else that might help you catch this bastard?'

  'Not a great deal.' admitted Pashenko.

  'But surely someone must have seen something?' said Bremen.

  Pashenko shook his head. 'The attack happened in darkness and those few souls who would be abroad at that time are not the sort to come forward and talk to me. Though as soon as your knight is able, I shall of course speak to him. He may be the only person in Kislev who has seen the Butcherman and lived.'

  'However, we did find some tracks leading both to and from Gerhard's stables. Two of the horses from his troika are missing, so I can only assume that the killer made his escape on one and transported his captives on the other.'

  Kaspar paced the room, stopping before the dripping words painted on the wall. 'And what in the name of Sigmar does this mean? "It all was her for." Who is "her"? Have you seen anything like this at previous Butcherman killings?'

  'No,' said Pashenko, pointedly. 'Only since you arrived in Kislev has the killer been leaving trophies or messages.'

  'And what does that mean?'

  'I do not know for certain, but I believe the killer is trying to tell you something.'

  'Tell me something? What?'

  'Again, I do not know,' said Pashenko, 'but taken together with the hearts left outside the embassy, I believe this message was intended for you. For whatever reason, the Butcherman has fixated on you, Ambassador von Velten.'

  II

  Her first sensation was pain. Then grief. Then terror.

  Sofia kept her breathing even and her eyes shut. She could feel that she was seated on a heavy wooden chair, her hands securely bound behind her to the uprights and her wrists chafed bloody by the rough cord. She couldn't tell if there was anyone in the same room as her, so she continued to give the appearance of unconsciousness while she attempted to collect her terrified thoughts. She was cold, but felt that she wasn't outside. Wherever she was smelled bad and she had worked in enough field hospitals to recognise the stench of rotten flesh and blood. She suppressed a disgusted retch as the pain in her head returned with a vengeance.

  Tears leaked from beneath her eyelids as she remembered the lightning flash of the knife that had ended Stefan's life, the gouting spray of arterial blood and the look of apology in his eyes as he fell.

  A single word entered her head... Butcherman.

  Gerhard's screams still echoed in her head and she found she could not remember what had happened after that, save an anguished cry that had preceded a blow to her temple.

  'You might as well open your eyes,' said a man's voice. 'I know you are awake.'

  Sofia sobbed, all self-control lost as she felt her captor's hand slide under her jaw and lift her head.

  'I am sorry I hit you,' he said. 'I just didn't expect to see you there. I thought that you were dead.'

  Sofia twisted her head from his grip. 'Please don't hurt me, please, please...'

  'Shhhh... I'm not going to hurt you, matka,' said the voice. 'How could you think such a thing? After all you did for me. You kept me safe, comforted me, loved me and prepared me for the day when we could finally be rid of Him. How could I hurt you? I love you, I've always loved you.'

  Sofia wept softly as he ran his hands through her auburn locks and she felt his nearness. She heard an intake of breath and realised he was smelling her hair.

  'Please,' she begged. 'Whatever you want, just don't kill me.'

  'Kill you?' laughed the voice. 'Don't you remember? You're already dead, but I kept a piece of you.'

  She twisted her head away from the Butcherman as she felt his face press against hers and a moist tongue lick her cheek. His skin felt leathery and hard.

  'Why do you pull away?' he asked.

  'Because you frighten me,' said Sofia.

  'But it's me,' he said, hurt. 'Your little boy, your precious warrior. Look at me.'

  'Please, no,' wept Sofia, keeping her eyes screwed shut.

  'I said look at me!' her captor bellowed, slapping her hard across the jaw. Sofia felt blood in her mouth and a weight drop across her thighs as he fell against her, wailing in anguish.

  'I'm sorry!' he sobbed. 'I'm so sorry. I didn't mean... I would never! Please don't make me hurt you! Don't make me hurt you again. You don't want that.'

  She felt him push himself upright to stand before her, and instinctively lashed out with her foot. But he was too quick, and her blow missed its target.

  'I told you to open your eyes,' he said, his earlier distress gone. 'I'll cut your eyelids off if you don't.'

  Her eyes filled with tears of pain, Sofia obeyed his command.

  Naked, the Butcherman stood before her, his flesh slathered in blood, manic eyes staring from behind a mask of crudely stitched skin, a mask of dead human skin. It had obviously once belonged to a man, but the ragged skin was decades dead, preserved and stitched into this grotesque facade. A long, thin bladed knife was sheathed in a cut of flesh on his muscled abdomen.

  Behind him, twisting gently on a butcher's hook suspended from the central beam of the roof, was the flayed body of Matthias Gerhard. His face, the only piece of skin his killer had left him was fixed in an expression of eternal agony.

  Sofia screamed.

  She screamed and screamed until he pressed his deadfleshed face against hers and kissed her furiously while embracing her tightly to his naked body.

  III

  'You mustn't fret, Kaspar. We'll get her back,' said Anastasia, holding his hand in hers while massaging the back of his neck with her free hand. They sat in the embassy courtyard, where Kaspar had sparred with Valdhaas and where Sofia had stitched his wounded shoulder. Anastasia wore a crimson gown, edged with silver fur, and had come to the embassy immediately upon hearing of the attack at Matthias Gerhard's. Two days had passed since that awful night and she had come to the embassy each day, bringing hopeful sentiments and the solace of a friend. The bright, cold light of morning made her skin shimmer and Kaspar was grateful for her words of comfort, even though enough time had passed to give them a hollow edge.

  'Pashenko thinks she is already dead,' said Kaspar, finally giving voice to the thought that had plagued him these last two days and kept him from sleep. The Chekist and the Knights Panther had been searching for Sofia and Gerhard, but in such a packed city, the odds of stumbling across them were astronomical. The knight wounded in the attack on Gerhard's house was unable to shed any useful information on the killer; merely that he was able to easily best them in combat and fought naked.

  The only thing that gave Kaspar a glimmer of hope was the fact that they had found no bodies and that there had been no more grisly offerings left for him.

  'No, you can't think like that,' said Anastasia. 'Surely if this madman were going to kill her and Gerhard, he would have done it already. At the same time he... he killed Stefan.'

  'Perhaps,' said Kaspar unconvinced.

  'Have the Chekist managed to come up with any idea of what actually happened yet?'

  Kaspar sneered. 'No. That fool Pashenko will happily find a convenient scapegoat soon enough, but he knows nothing.'

  Anastasia sighed. 'And he has n
o idea why or where Sofia and Gerhard were taken?'

  'If he does, he's not saying.'

  Anastasia nodded, chewing her bottom lip as though wrestling with a thorny ethical dilemma. Kaspar caught the look and said, 'What is it?'

  'Well, it's... it's that I know you are fond of Sofia,' said Anastasia hesitantly.

  'What does that mean?'

  'How much do you really know about her?'

  'Enough to know that she's a good person and that I trust her.'

  'That's what I mean. You trust her, but you don't really know her, do you? I know that she used to work for Vassily Chekatilo before she came to work for you.'

  'You're joking,' said Kaspar, incredulous.

  'I wish I was, Kaspar, but I'm led to believe she worked for him for several years.'

  'What are you trying to suggest?'

  'Chekatilo is not a man you can just walk away from,' said Anastasia. 'I know. I'm saying that perhaps the Butcherman has not kidnapped Sofia at all. I'm saying that perhaps Chekatilo forcibly took her back himself.'

  IV

  Time blurred; her only connection to the outside world a smeared skylight that allowed only the most fitful light to enter. Sofia didn't know how many days had passed since her abduction, only that her pain increased with every moment and that there was a growing realisation that she would, in all likelihood, die in this stinking attic.

  She wept tears of bitterness and frustration, her sobs muffled by the blood-stiffened rag stuffed in her mouth and tied in place with a broad leather strap. Her wrists throbbed dully; she could no longer feel her fingertips and even the slightest movement brought fiery agony as the crusted blood split and the rough cord dug further into the meat of her arms.

  The days passed. Some as pain-filled boredom, others as unrelenting horror as he would climb into the attic, the dead skin mask stretched tight across his features. On many of those occasions, he would touch her, whisper to her that he loved her or that he had followed her orders and killed again for her, that he had eaten human flesh in honour of their day of liberation from his tyranny.