Blinking repeatedly Erik looked behind him on either side through bleary, blood-shot eyes. His arms were chained to a wall, and he wasn’t sure where he was. Certainly not the Reikland tavern where he’d met the pretty serving wench last night. No. It smelled much worse here and it, sadly, seemed like no-one was about to bring him a drink. He pulled experimentally against the fetters binding his wrists to the wall behind him. Even through the cloying fog of a thick hangover the huge Norscan mercenary knew something was wrong. He had enemies of course but they all wanted him dead. This was different.
‘You.’ the massive Norscan barked even as he kicked one of the many prone figures in the squalid basement. ’Empire-man, why aren’t I in bed?’
The rag swaddled figure cringed from the blow of the heavy hobnailed boot and sat up as though in a daze before shaking his head. The other figures, some chained to the wall like Erik, began to move as well. Presumably stirred to wakefulness by the northerner’s deep voice. A troubled expression played over his harshly chiselled features as Erik shook his long blonde hair from his eyes and looked around. Everything but the clothes on his back had been taken.
‘Where’s my sword?’ he demanded, ‘don’t think I can’t kill you all without it.’ he glowered at the other prisoners who were too preoccupied to respond.
For a man of Erik’s towering height standing was quite a process, but he managed it despite his manacled wrists. Presumably ignoring the muttered protestations of the cringing figure he had kicked as it whined about its ignorance his blue-grey eyes scanned the basement. One thing was readily apparent. Of the other prisoners several were obviously mutants possessed of all manner of misshapen deformities that were all too visible in spite of any attempts at concealment.
A piercing scream from somewhere above them saw the imprisoned figures all stare upwards, but for Erik. Instead the pale-skinned northerner shook his long flaxen hair free of his eyes and grunted, straining through clenched teeth, as he pulled against his bonds. The chains were pulled taut and offered no give, but even as the iron manacles began to cut into his wrists Erik proceeded to rip one of the bolted anchor-plates he was chained too clear off the wall with a loud crack. The second followed a moment later.
‘HAH!’ Erik intoned loudly, 'worthless, that wouldn’t have held a Skealing child.’
Immediately the other captives started. Some yelling, pleading, all asking Erik to help them escape. Of the others chained to the walls some tried to follow his example, but their bonds held strong. Of the rest some were bound hand-and-foot, but others with merely their wrists tied behind their backs managed to find their feet. Erik ignored them all and strode purposefully to the heavy oak door at the top of a short flight of steps on the left side of their prison, which appeared to be some kind of cellar. With one large hand brushing back his pale hair the Norscan’s gaze was fixed for a moment on the heavy lock, and then scanned the door-frame. It seemed all too sturdy.
‘I can get it open.’ one of the other captives volunteered.
More screams filtered down from above as the northerner turned to regard the man who had made this claim. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak of ragged un-dyed wool, mud-stained and torn about the hem, but from what could be seen of him the man’s appearance was shockingly cadaverous. Erik leapt over the side of the staircase to land heavily on the stone-tiled floor, and strode over to the bound figure. The others continued to beseech him for assistance but one of them at least had worked his wrists free, and had set about helping his fellow prisoners.
‘Ready?’ Erik grasped the chains, one in each hand, and planted his boot on the wall between the anchor plates.
The cadaverous figure flinched visible as iron plates were torn free with a rattling snap.
‘Go.’ the tall Northerner grunted even as he yanked the slightly-built man to his feet.
‘Wait,’ he said, while pulling free of Erik’s hand and gestured for him to stop, 'We should free the others first, we may need their help.'
Erik growled something about not needing their help, but seeing the man he had freed was now busying himself untying the ropes binding one of his fellows, and having nothing better to do he walked to one of the other chained figures and tore his fetters free of the wall as well. By the time he had freed the second chained prisoner the others were largely untied. Although two of them remained behind to help the last bound captives Erik now hurried the emaciated mutant along.
‘Now.’ he spoke tersely, following as he urged the figure across the cellar and up the stairs.
The cadaverous young man halted in front of the door, crouching over, and paused was still for a time, as though concentrating. Then with an unpleasant retching sound he proceeded to vomit over the lock. Erik leaned away, and raised an arm against the reek, but the fluid seemed unnaturally corrosive. It hissed as it ate into the iron lock and even the wood steamed under the bubbling bile. Seeing this Erik thrust the crouching figure aside and wrenched open the door, striding out of the cellar with a number of the former prisoners following in his wake. Some moved with a cringing reticence, skulking along the walls, while others seemed ready to confront whoever had imprisoned them. They were given the chance right away as the room at the top of the stairs, with its high vaulted ceiling and polished floor-boards, was empty but for a narrow table stacked with personal effects and two hooded figures slumped, seemingly unconscious, in chairs set either side of a door on the far side of the room. They had presumably been guarding the cellar, but evidently they had taken this charge lightly. A feint smoke hung in the air along with a narcotic fume, the smell of mandrake, and one of them had dropped a smouldering pipe from a limply-hanging arm as he slouched unconsciously.
The erstwhile prisoners set upon them in an instant even as the two guards tried to rouse themselves. Erik ignored the affray and made straight for the table. He did not turn aside over the cry as one of the mutants seized a dagger from the sheath at his victims waist and plunged it into his chest, or the gurgling death-rattle as the second guard had his throat cut. He was too busy rifling through the personal effects upon the table. Upon it he found a thick, hooded white fur mantle which he seized immediately, and pulled on over his broad shoulders, but this was evidently not the only thing he had been relieved of and his frustrated gaze swept the table again before he angrily hauled it over. Its contents clattered noisily to the floor as the northerner stormed over to the door blocking his exit. The tall Norscan reared back and kicked it off its hinges with a contemptuous snarl before he stepped through and found himself standing in an expansive foyer. Its size and décor suggestive of a noble manor-home, yet curiously deserted but for the sound of chanting voices coming from upstairs.
A piercing scream rose above the sonorous chant, and faltered with an unpleasant gurgling.
An affray ensued almost immediately about the large double-doors which led outside. Trying to flee, some of the former captives had run up against two guards. Sober and able men clad in the livery of some Reikland noble. They drove the escapees back inside, and left one bleeding to death on the steps outside the door, but within the open space of the expansive foyer they were easily surrounded. As three mutants wrestled one of them to the floor Erik seized the wrist of the other before he could bring his sword down on another of the escapees. He snatched a knife from the man’s own belt in the same instant, and savagely jammed it into the back of the guards neck. Taking his sword as the guard slumped to his knees and fell, face-first, like a hewn tree to lie amid a widening puddle of his own blood Erik watched as the second guard fell, stabbed repeatedly.
The other captives seemed uncertain of where to go next. Some spoke, trying to formulate a plan, while others took in their surroundings in an effort to find their bearings. Erik ignored them and headed upstairs toward the source of the chanting. No more screams could be heard from above as he alighted at the top of the broad staircase and it was clear now where the sound was coming from however two figures stood in front of the ornate double doors that hid its source. They were cloaked and hooded like the two downstairs, but seemed quite sober and it was only when they came closer, drawing daggers from their belts that he recognised the face of the serving girl from the night before. This did not stop him cutting them down though and Erik was soon stepping over her corpse with its neck almost cleaved through. Her white-faced companion clutching at the bleeding stump where his arm had been sheared off below the shoulder, while Erik paused only to glance at the bloodied edge of the sword he had taken from the guard downstairs. As he reached the door they had been guarding however the one-armed figure, rolling his its stomach, grasped desperately at his ankle.
‘No-’ he drew a laboured, shuddering breath. ‘the ritual, it can’t-’ with an almost casual gesture Erik silenced him, jabbing the tip of his blade into the back of the prone man’s neck.
Tearing himself free of the dead man’s grasping hand Erik pushed the large double doors apart to form a crack through which he saw that the dimly lit space beyond was given over to a long, narrow high-ceilinged room on whose walls were shelved a vast collection of books and manuscripts. Such details drew scant attention however compared to what was occurring inside: the walls lined with robed and hooded figures, while a dozen more formed a circle of twelve. Six blue robed and hooded acolytes on one side and six with purple robes on the other; the source of the chanting. All somewhat indistinct in the flickering rosier glow of firelight burning in the bronze bowls set between them. The floor at their feet was traced with an intricate magical circle formed of complex signs and sigils, and painted in blood. While the heaped bodies of a half-dozen mutants lying in a tangled, bloody mess within this circle - their nakedness revealing their every deformity - suggested its source. The true focus and centrepiece of this gathering though was a cloth-draped alter where an unconscious, pale-skinned female figure lay amid a ring of black candles that lined the alters edges, her body draped with fine silks. At its base was a larger brazier of bronze, and even as Erik came upon the scene a cloaked figure lifted a branding-iron from the flames - one of thirteen - and handed it to the elaborately garbed magus standing behind the alter itself. His face concealed behind a featureless silver mask polished to a mirror shine.
‘
Njawrr lzimbarr Tzeentch!’ he cried, holding the branding iron above his head.
‘
Njawrr lzimbarr Tzeentch!’ the figures lining the walls answered, while the circle continued their chanting.
‘
Njawrr lzimbarr Slaanesh!’ the Magus continued.
Erik noticed that set upon the alter beside the woman alongside thirteen silver chalices was a long, two-handed sword. His eyes lit up with recognition, and his jaw set like a trap.
‘That sword is mine.’ the Norscan stated coldly as he strode into the room, and though he did not speak loudly his deep voice carried far.
The chanting faltered briefly before the acolyte who had handed their magus the brand gestured frantically at the others.
‘Do not halt the ritual!’ he demanded. 'Kill him-' the figure thrust a hand in Erik's direction, 'the circle must not be broken!'
The magus meanwhile turned the branding iron over in his hands and pressed its tip to the unconscious young woman’s forearm with an audible hiss. Her skin already sported eleven such brands. If he even realized that Erik was there he did not care. However the cultists who were not participating did notice, and crowded towards him. Too many to fight.
‘
Hakkaa päälle!’ the roared Skealing war-cry echoed loudly in the narrow library as Erik cut down an approaching cultist.
He was made for the circle, since that was what they were trying to prevent, and was too close for the others to intercept him. Cutting down one of the chanting acolytes in purple robes, and kicking over the brazier beside him Erik charged into the circle itself. An unnaturally cold wind blew out of nowhere and the braziers flickered as though about to die, while the candles burning on the alter flared into columns of blinding incandescence that were gone in an instant, leaving behind pools of boiling wax. One of the acolytes nearest to Erik collapsed, and bit off his own tongue as his body was wracked by spasms that snapped his spine. Others fell to their knees bleeding from their eyes, or vomiting blood as the burning contents of the braziers burst in a massive shower of sparks one after the other to set the room ablaze. Erik strode through this chaos as though traversing the eye of some terrible storm, and made for the alter. Behind it the Magus had reeled backwards as though struck, but raising his hand defiantly he seemed to rally himself. A voice spoke from behind the silver mask, but it spoke no mortal tongue and the words echoed strangely as he placed a hand on the hilt of Erik’s sword. The pale-haired Skealing growled at this and broke into a run, but even as he reached the alter the magus vanished in a blinding flash. The sword was gone.
Screaming a wordless, rage-filled imprecation Erik turned, ready to fight, but the room was ablaze, and the air was thickening with smoke as the rapidly spreading flames climbed the walls, consuming their books-lined shelves. Of the cultists - abandoned now by their magus - those who had not been engulfed in some way by the broken ritual had either fled or were fleeing. Erik started after the nearest, sword in hand, but halted before his first step had been taken to glance back at the unconscious woman lying on the alter. She would certainly burn if he left her. On the other hand it seemed to Erik his best chance to retrieve his sword would be in catching one of the cultists and for a moment he stood near the alter as though uncertain of what to do. Then he looked at her again and noticed the runes branded onto the skin of her upper arm, and he wondered if she might be of any assistance. After all she could have been a member of the cult herself and if not there was a chance they might try to recapture her. He did not dwell on it further though as the room was quickly filling with smoke, and Erik swept her up off the alter quickly, one arm under her back and the other under her knees, while he rather awkwardly kept hold of the sword he had taken earlier.
The tall Norscan was soon pounding down the stairs, his icey blue eyes bloodshot from the smoke-filled air as he fled the burning manor. Outside, beyond the large double doors, he found himself in an empty, walled courtyard whose wrought iron gates had been thrown open. He noticed a couch house and made straight for it. Inside the coach itself was gone but one of the four stables was not empty.
Outside, beyond the imposing wall surrounding it, there were a number of wealthy looking onlookers staring at the burning manor, while others gossiped and commented on the outlandish figures they had seen fleeing it. The street itself was paved and lined by other large manors and town-houses. It seemed to be a wealthy district. The sun was setting but the street lamps were unlit, and shadows obscured a group of watchmen who were jogging down the broad street towards the source of the disturbance, but before they arrived a horse shot out through the open wrought iron gate. Erik was riding it, and held the girl in the saddle in front of him as he gripped the reigns and spurred the animal on, racing down the street. The district was unfamiliar to him but he assumed it was part of the city of Bergsberg where he and the axe company had halted to spend their coin after being paid to hunt Beastmen in the Drakwald. He made for the nearest gate.
Erik looked up at the setting sun and urged his stolen mount on faster, its iron-shod hooves clattering loudly on the stone-paved streets as he raced through the city, holding the unconscious young woman between his arms. The cities gates would close when the lamplighters started to do their rounds, and that would not be far off now, but first the fleeing mercenary had to make a decision about his heading. While he, and some of his fellows had retired to Bergsberg to spend their profits at least half of their company had continued north towards the villages of Wannsingen and Hovelhoff to take on work killing trolls in the foothills of the middle mountains, but he was on the wrong side of the river to head after them. As he raced towards one of the main thoroughfares of the city Erik had to either turn left and cross the river, to take the north-east gate, and seek out his comrades in arms or turn right, taking the north west gate, and make for the Old Forest road, and - perhaps eventually - the city of Middenheim. In the end his pride won out, and the Skaeling sell-sword resolved to head away from his comrades. He would not return to them without his sword, let alone ask them for help. That was the road to failure and mockery.
So Erik urged his mount to the right as they charged out onto the wider cobbled street which led to the Löwentor, Bergsberg’s lion-gate, and he was soon guiding the stolen horse along at speed while swerving and veering through the coaches, carts and foot traffic that would otherwise have slowed their progress intolerably. One thing was certain. Erik would not willingly spend another night in Bergsberg. It had not escaped his attention that all of the cults captives had appeared to be mutants, and it suggested that they knew he was too, despite it not being readily obvious. Were that so then if they wished revenge for his part in the failed ritual they would not even need to hunt him down themselves. A few carefully chosen remarks about corruption in a foreign mercenary company staying in the city would have the raving fanatics of Sigmar after them all. The tall Skealing stood up in his stirrups in an attempt to see the gate as they followed the road up a noticeable incline, but it was as yet too far, the hill between them too steep. Though past the cities walls, to the north, he noted dark clouds brooding over the Middle Mountains. Settling back into the saddle he felt a small hand grasp his forearm and knew the girl was awake, but for the time being he was content to focus on riding so long as she said nothing.
It did not take long for them to crest the hill, and as the road sloped back down before them it presented an unobstructed view of the city gates. Though they were wide-open the twinkle and flash of storm lanterns carried by the night-guards on the walls above suggested they would not long remain that way. Erik shook his head, and his long hair streamed behind him in the wind of their speed as he urged the mount to a flat-out gallop and raced down the hill. His pale blue eyes flickered downward when the girl let down her grey-streaked hair as he noticed the elaborate piece of jewellery she had just removed. The sum of Erik’s worldly assets had been his sword, his armour, and a purse of silver - the remains of the coin he had earned fighting beastmen in the Drakwald - and all of it was now gone. Taken by the cult, though the horse he had stolen redressed this somewhat. Yet even as he wondered whether the object belonged to her, and if so why it hadn’t been taken his attention shifted back to the girl herself when she leaned into his forearm to glance back at him. Erik met her dark-eyed gaze and saw no trace of fear. Which was curious, but he did not think on it long as his attention soon shifted to the road ahead. The way ahead was clear.
The guards, more interested in traffic heading into the city than anyone trying to leave, were unaware of them until it was too late. As they streaked through the open gate, and the girl sang in a language he did not recognize both her voice, and the tune were spoiled somewhat by the sound of shouting behind them and orders for them to stop, but Erik did not look back. Beyond the city the road was no longer paved but formed of cleared and beaten earth and it plunged almost immediately into thick forest, the likes of which covered so much of the Empire. They followed it, and as they drew further from the city he seemed content for the horse to find its own pace as it carried them under the shadows of the trees. They had not gone far when his passenger demanded to know where they were going, and Erik reigned in the horse after he glanced back and felt satisfied they were not being pursued.
‘Erik.’ he cut back as the animal’s pace slowed, ‘of Olricsaad-Heorot, and I am Skaeling. I wished to be out of the city before the gates closed, but as for where we travel, for the time being, anywhere but there will do.’
The horse slowed to a walk, and turned as if to cross the road as Erik glanced around. The trees were not so dense here in the eaves of the forest and it was no doubt safer to halt here than to risk doing so later.
‘What do you remember of the cult, the ritual?’ he asked, ‘I know nothing, but I woke in their cellar with others. I think we were to be sacrifices. We escaped, but they had taken something of mine and I went back for it. Their ritual went badly wrong, many of them died. The place was burning, so I took you out.’
Erik leaned forward slightly as he spoke, his broad chest pressing into the girl’s back, to peer over one of her slender shoulders and get a better look at her when it struck him that she was no mere girl. He also noticed the gem hanging from her neck.
‘Satisfied?’ he asked of his terse explanation.
Holding the reins with one hand as the horse walked slowly, giving her a chance to respond, the Skaeling mercenary brushed back his long hair, while his gelid eyes were fixed ahead of them. He had travelled the Old Forest road, and the way to Middenheim before. Indeed Erik knew the city itself well. The City of the White Wolf, of Ulric, and site of the winter God’s highest temple. Of all the deities worshiped in the Empire he was the only one who did not seem strange to Erik, and, in the guise of Ulric Bloodhand, he was the only one worshiped in Norsca. Erik had come to the Ulricsberg, and Middenheim from Marianburg where he had worked as a bodyguard after leaving Olricsaad-Heorot on the southern coast of Norsca. It was in that great northern city where he had joined the axe company, a group of Norscan expatriates working as mercenaries. He had taken this same road when they had come to Hochland and Bergsberg from the north. At that time there had been a coaching inn not far from the city where coaches halted for the night if they arrived after the cities gates had closed.
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