THIS IS A DARK age, a bloody age, an age of daemons
and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the
world's ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury
it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds
and great courage.
AT THE HEART of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the
largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for
its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is
a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests
and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns
the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendant of the
founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder
of his magical warhammer.
BUT THESE ARE far from civilised times. Across the length
and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces
of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come
rumblings of war. In the towering World's Edge Mountains,
the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and
renegades harry the wild southern lands of
the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the
skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the
land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the
ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen
corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods.
As the time of battle draws ever
near, the Empire needs heroes
like never before.
Prologue
KAR ODACEN KNEW that the lightning bolt he had waited his entire life for would strike the mountain long before it split the sky. A mighty peal of thunder rolled across the heavens, the rain falling in an unending torrent, as though the seas of the world had been carried into the sky by the gods and now flooded forth in an attempt to drown all the lands of men.
He could feel the power of the lightning seething above him, summoned to the land below by the magicks he and every shaman of the Iron Wolves before him had drawn to these mountains since time before memory.
The jagged peak above him was a dark spike against the flickering sky, the gods battling in the clouds casting their ghostly lights across the highlands of the World's Edge Mountains. He felt the hairs on his scarred and becharmed arms stand erect as he passed a column of bleached skulls, fully as tall as the greatest warrior of the Wolves, the tip of the copper pole they were impaled upon protruding a span above the topmost skull. Ripples of blue fire danced along the length of the column of bone, flickering within the empty eye sockets of the grinning skulls, imparting them with a malicious anime. Hundreds of such tribute poles ringed the peak of the mountain, a sign to the Old One who slept beneath the world that he was remembered; that the warriors and shamans of the Iron Wolves had not forgotten him. These mountains were old when the world was young and the Iron Wolves had never dared forget their duty to them.
The High Zars of the Iron Wolves had laid a thousand times a thousand skulls from a hundred lifetimes of war at their shamans' feet and, as the centuries passed, each generation would add more skulls on their copper poles to the mountain. In preparation for his attack into Kislev, the High Zar of the Iron Wolves, Aelfric Cyenwulf himself, had bade his shaman raise countless skulls in honour of the Dark Gods.
Kar Odacen passed one such tribute pole, a sense of fearful anticipation growing within his breast. He had awoken from a dream in which packs of the ravenous, black-furred wolves of the north chased a solitary white wolf across the heavens. Upon the shimmering white wolfs back was a mighty-thewed warrior clad in furs who wielded a great warhammer, and though this wolf was powerful, it could not outpace its hunters. The white wolf turned at bay atop a tall peak of ice-slick rock and together it and the rider fought the snapping packs of northern wolves. Man and wolf fought hard and well, spilling the blood of hundreds of their foes, but even as they took heart in their slaughter, the dark wolves changed to become a roiling storm cloud of impenetrable darkness, pierced only by lava-hot spears of lightning that opened great gashes in the flesh of both man and wolf.
Though he could not see within the cloud, Kar Odacen's dream-self knew that something unimaginably ancient and monstrously evil lay at its heart. And even he, who had sent his spirit into the realm of the daemonkin, knew to dread its power.
Without warning the dark storm suddenly swelled to swallow the man and his wolf whole and Kar Odacen had woken knowing that the night his distant predecessors had prophesied had finally come. He had set off into the darkness, climbing breathlessly for hours as the rain pounded like hammer blows on his shaven, tattooed head and his feet were torn bloody by razor-sharp rocks.
Another boom of thunder, like the gods' footsteps on the world, rolled across the sky, but Kar Odacen did not bother to look up, knowing in his bones that it was not yet time.
He reached a plateau of sheared rock, two hundred yards or more below the peak, his breath like hot smoke in his lungs, and dropped to his knees with arms raised above him in praise of this most holy night. Even over the unceasing roar of the rain he could hear the crackling from the skull columns below him grow louder, feeling the heat of the fire that danced between them as it reached deep into the heart of the mountain.
The skies rumbled and the mountain shook, as though bracing itself for what must happen next and Kar Odacen felt a swelling of dark and terrible power. He looked up as the heavens split apart with a vast, incandescent sheet of lightning that struck the highest peak of the mountain, its brightness searing the sight from his eyes.
The mountaintop exploded, disappearing in a gigantic cloud of rubble and smoke. Rocks were hurled hundreds of yards into the air, tumbling down in an avalanche of blasted shale. Kar Odacen screamed the name of his Dark Gods as the rubble smashed down all around him, pulverising the slopes of the mountain, but, impossibly, leaving him unscathed. Blood dripped from his ears and he blinked the searing afterimage of the lightning from his eyes as he felt the hard rain cease and the deafening echoes of the thunder and explosion fade to nothing, leaving him swaying and alone on the smashed mountaintop.
Kar Odacen lowered his arms, feeling a tremor of dread run through the rock of the mountain. A similar feeling of fear and awe took him in its grip. The sudden silence of the mountains after the violence of the storm was more terrifying than anything he had known before.
A creeping horror slowly overtook him, rising languidly through his bones as the throat of something that had seen the birth of the world took its first breath in uncounted ages. Blinking away tears of rapture and terror, Kar Odacen saw a writhing column of impossibly black, lightning-hearted smoke rise from the smashed caldera of the mountaintop, its sapphire innards crackling with a horrifying, fiery urgency. Though no breath of wind disturbed the night, the smoke gathered itself together, and slid down the mountainside like a dark slick upon the air.
The mountain shuddered with the tread of something magnificent and terrible, rocks crushed to powder beneath its weight and power. The baleful glow from the smoke's innards grew fiercer as it approached the paralysed shaman, the horror concealed there pausing to regard him with as much interest as a man might pay an ant before continuing on its thunderous journey towards the new world below.
Kar Odacen shivered and let out a juddering breath, shaking like a newborn foal.
'The End Times are upon this world...' he whispered through trembling lips.
CHAPTER ONE
I
BUILT ATOP THE Gora Geroyev, the city of Kislev was an impressive sight. High walls of smooth black stone were topped with sawtoothed ramparts and constructed with the practicality common to its
northern inhabitants. Tall towers jutted from either side of the thick timber gate and enfilading cannon positions covered the road leading towards the city with their bronze muzzles.
The tops of tall buildings reared above the walls, as if daring an attacker to try and sack them, and the tips of the spears carried by the fur-clad soldiers who walked the ramparts glittered in the low, evening sun. Surrounding the base of the walls were thousands of refugees, people driven from their homes in the north of the country by the warriors of High Zar Aelfric Cyenwulf, a bloodthirsty war leader of the Kurgan tribes.
A sprawling canvas city housing thousands - tens of thousands - gathered around the city, clinging to the walls as though seeking safety by virtue of their proximity.
'Precious little protection to be had here,' whispered Kaspar von Velten, ambassador of the Emperor Karl-Franz, pulling his cloak tighter about himself as a blast of freezing air whipped across the packed hillside. The Tzarina had been forced to bar the gates to prevent further refugees from entering the already overcrowded city. When the High Zar's army came south, as soon it must, the city would quickly starve should the entirety of the fleeing populace be given sanctuary within its walls.
'No.' agreed Kurt Bremen, leader of the group of Knights Panther who rode with Kaspar. 'It will be a slaughter.'
'Perhaps.' said Kaspar. 'Unless Boyarin Kurkosk can stop the Kurgans north of here.'
'Do you think he can?'
'It's possible.' allowed Kaspar. 'I'm told the boyarin is a great warrior and he gathers nearly fifty thousand men to his banner.'
'For these people's sake, let us hope he is a great leader of men as well as a great warrior. The two are not always the same thing.'
Kaspar nodded, guiding his horse along the frozen, rutted roadway between twin rows of makeshift campsites and riding towards the gates of the city. Cold, frightened people glanced up as he and his knights passed, but their misery was too complete for them to pay much attention to them. He felt his heart go out to them, brutalised as they were by months of war and hardship, and wished he could do more to help them.
The gates of the city groaned open as his weary group approached, crowds of desperate people gathering what meagre belongings they had managed to carry from their stanistas and hurrying towards the gates, pleas for entry pouring from every mouth.
Kossars in long, padded coats and green tabards emerged from within and blocked the gateway with long-hafted axes and shouted oaths. Fierce-looking men with helms of bronze and long, drooping moustaches, they pushed the wailing refugees back without mercy and Kaspar had to fight the urge to shout at them. These were their own people they were condemning to the freezing temperatures, but the part of Kaspar that had once been a general in the Emperor's armies knew that they were only obeying orders that he himself would have given were he in charge of the city's defences.
He eased his silver-maned steed, Magnus, through the yelling crowds, turning as a weeping woman pulled at his snow-limned cloak. She wore a threadbare pashmina over a coarse black dress and thrust a swaddled babe towards him, pleading with him in snatches of rapid Kislevite.
Kaspar shook his head, 'Nya Kislevarin, Nya.'
The woman fought off the kossars' attempts to pull her away from Kaspar, screaming and fighting to place the baby in his arms. Even as she was finally dragged away, Kaspar could see that her efforts had been in vain: the child was long-dead, blue and frozen.
Fighting back his sadness, he rode through the cold darkness of the gateway, pathetically grateful to emerge into the cold, miserable confines of the winter-gripped city. The scene inside the walls was little better, the streets lined with gaunt, fur-wrapped people, huddled together and shuffling aimlessly and fearfully along the city streets.
Though he knew his actions in Kislev over the last few months had already saved many lives, having stopped a corrupt Empire merchant from profiteering from stolen supplies destined for the people of Kislev, Kaspar felt fresh resolve to do more.
His personal guard of Knights Panther, mighty armoured knights atop enormous Averland destriers, were weary after nearly two weeks spent out in the frozen wilderness of Kislev. They followed him inside, all visibly struggling with the idea of leaving these people outside the walls.
In the centre of the Knights Panther rode Sasha Kajetan, once the most beloved and heroic figure in Kislev, a swordsman beyond compare and leader of one of the Tzarina's most glorious cavalry regiments. Kajetan was now a broken man, virtually catatonic and skeletally thin after his flight into the oblast.
Kajetan's hands were bound before him, his true nature as a brutal murderer having only recently come to light when he had killed Kaspar's oldest friend, before abducting and torturing his physician.
But Kajetan was now captured and though the feared Chekist would surely want him hung, Kaspar was determined to delay the swordsman's fate for as long as possible to try and fathom what had driven the man to such murderous extremes.
Kajetan caught Kaspar's look and nodded weakly in acknowledgement. Kaspar was surprised; it was the first human gesture the swordsman had made since they had fought their way through the Kurgan scouting party in the oblast nearly a week ago.
Kaspar watched as the gates closed, pushed shut by nearly a score of kossars and barred with thick spars of hardened timber.
'Sigmar forgive us...' he whispered, turning his horse and riding along the Goromadny Prospekt towards Geroyev Square in the centre of the city.
During the summer and spring months, the square was traditionally the site of a thriving market, thronged with trappers selling their wares, horse traders and all manner of merchants. When Kaspar had first come to Kislev, enthusiastic crowds had gathered, yelling and cursing around a corral of plains ponies, the bidding spirited and lively, but now the square was packed to capacity with innumerable campsites, clusters of tents and sputtering cookfires covering every inch of ground.
It was a sight typical around Kislev, a city in which there were many wide boulevards lined with hardy evergreens - most of which had long since been cut down for firewood. The hulking iron statues of long-dead tzars watched over their people's misery impassively, powerless to aid them in their time of need.
The Winter Palace of the Ice Queen dominated the far side of the square, its white towers and gleaming marble walls of ice glittering like glass in the low evening sunlight.
'The Ice Queen left the gates open too long,' observed Kurt Bremen. 'There are too many people within the walls. Many of them will starve to death when Kislev comes under siege.'
'I know, Kurt, but these are her people, she could not leave them all to die. She would save her city, but lose her people,' replied Kaspar, riding along the edge of the square towards the Temple of Ulric and the Empire embassy that lay behind it.
'Unless there is some better news from the Empire, she may lose it anyway. With Wolfenburg gone, it is doubtful the Emperor will send his armies north when there are enemies within our own lands.'
'They will come, Kurt.' promised Kaspar.
'I hope you are right, ambassador.'
'Have you ever met the Emperor?' asked Kaspar, turning in the saddle to face the knight.
'No, I have not had that honour.'
'I have, and Karl-Franz is a man of courage and honour.' said Kaspar. 'He is a warrior king and I have fought alongside him on more than one occasion. Against orcs, Norse raiders and the beasts of the forests. He has sworn to aid Kislev and I do not believe he will forsake that oath.'
Kurt Bremen smiled. 'Then I too will believe it.'
II
BOTH RATCATCHERS WERE SO inured to the reek of shit that neither now paid it any mind. Hundreds of tonnes of human and animal waste flowed through the sewers below the streets of Kislev, carried through the oval tunnels dug through the rock and earth of the Gora Geroyev to empty far downriver into the Urskoy.
Commissioned by Tzar Alexis and designed by the ingenious Empire engineer, Josef Bazalgette, the tunnels below Kisle
v were amongst the greatest engineering marvels of the north, effectively eliminating the scourge of cholera from the Kislevite capital. Mile upon mile of twisting tunnels extended in a labyrinthine maze beneath the streets like the tunnels beneath the Fauschlag of Middenheim; though these tunnels were formed of bricks and mortar rather than from the natural rock.
A pair of small dogs padded before the two ratcatchers along the ledge that ran alongside the foaming river of effluent, their tails erect and ears pressed flat against their skulls. The rushing of the sewage echoed from the glistening brick walls, keeping conversation to a minimum.
Both men were clad in stiffened leathers, crusted with age and filth, and high, hobnailed boots. They wore thin metal helmets, padded with matted fur and scarves around their mouths and noses. Though they barely noticed the smell any more, they wore the protective scarves through force of habit. Each man carried a long pole over one shoulder, a single rat dangling by its tail from each of them.
'A poor day, Nikolai, a poor day.' said the shorter of the two ratcatchers with a weary shrug that made the rat on his pole dance in an imitation of life.
'Aye, Marska, few vermin to catch today.' agreed his apprentice, Nikolai, casting an irritated glance at the two dogs. 'What shall we eat tonight?'
'I think we shan't be presenting these sorry specimens to the city authorities for a copper kopek.' sighed Marska. 'I fear we may be dining on rat again, my friend.'
'Perhaps tomorrow will be better. We could sell some to the refugees?'
'Aye, maybe we can.' said Nikolai doubtfully.
Winter's icy grip and the bloodthirsty ravages of a Kurgan barbarian war leader, whose armies were even now closing on the city, had displaced thousands of people from their homes on the steppe and many now huddled, cold and frightened, around the walls of the northern capital. It was true that the refugees who flocked to the camps outside the city walls were willing to eat pretty much anything and there had been some nice money in selling rat meat to them. But that had been before the cold had killed most of the rats and the few emaciated creatures they had managed to trap were the only food that they themselves could expect to see for some time.