Swords of the Empire Read online

  A WARHAMMER STORIES NOVEL

  SWORDS OF THE EMPIRE

  Edited by Marc Gascoigne and Christian Dunn

  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.

  THE VAMPIRE HUNTERS

  by Robert Earl

  THE WIND CAME fleeing down from the dark wastes of the north. It clamored outside the tavern with a thousand phantom voices, each of them begging for admittance. The men within could feel its hunger as they sat, hungry themselves, around the smoldering fire.

  At first they had tried to ignore the storm's plaintive wailing. When that had proved impossible they had tried to talk over it and drown it out with forced good humour. But winter had soon frozen their conversation just as surely as it had frozen the village well. So now they just sat, and listened, and tried not to think of the things that waited outside.

  It was difficult. When the wind clawed at the rough-hewn pine of the walls, how could they not be reminded of other, stronger fingers? And when it tore at the reeds of the roof, burrowing its way down like a wolf into a hare's nest, who amongst them could help wondering what might be coming with it? And when it screamed… Well, when it screamed then it was time for more vodka, and to hell with making it last the winter.

  Yet still, despite their fear, they remained calm and resolved. They were, after all, Kislevites, and generations of hardship had forged them into a race not easily broken. Even when the first blow was struck upon the oak door, hard enough to ring the icy wood like a bell, they didn't panic. They merely unsheathed their long skinning knives and waited, eyes glinting warily in the firelight.

  One long, breathless moment stretched into the next.

  The wind howled.

  As if in sympathy, the fire flared up, the light of the dancing flames gleaming on the knives of the waiting men. Grigori, the tavern keeper, watched the door and chewed the white whiskered tip of his drooping moustache. Although his comrades mocked him because of the mannerism, it was a habit he'd never been able to break, even after forty years of trying.

  'Perhaps,' Danovich ventured, his voice little more than a whisper, 'it was just a stray branch.'

  'Perhaps,' Piotre agreed, doubtfully. Grigori, still chewing, said nothing.

  Another knock, harder this time, beat against the door, and the men jumped like three puppets on a single string.

  'Anybody in there?' a voice yelled, struggling to rise above the wind.

  Danovich and Piotre looked at Grigori. He shrugged before rising and walked over to the door; his two friends huddled close behind.

  He took a deep breath and pulled out the loose rivet that served him as a spy hole.

  Outside there was nothing but the swirling snow, gray beneath the light of a dying sun and a tall figure, standing with his back to the door, shivering beneath his cloak.

  'Who's that?' Grigori demanded, squinting out into the half-light.

  'Calixte Lesec,' the figure replied, turning back to the door, 'and my man-servant, Viento.'

  'Man-servant, my arse!' a voice grumbled from somewhere out of sight.

  'Can we come in?'

  Grigori hesitated.

  'This is the village of Novograd, isn't it?' the stranger persisted.

  'It is,' Grigori allowed.

  'Then we have business. We met a young man called Petrokov on the road, and he…'

  Grigori slammed back the bolts and dragged the door open.

  'Come in, come in,' he cried, beckoning the two travellers into the tavern. The wind surged in gleefully behind them as they bundled inside, red faced and glowing with the icy chill of winter. Grigori shouldered the door shut before turning to greet his guests.

  'Grigori Calinescu,' he said, offering his hand.

  'Calixte Lesec,' the stranger said, shaking it. His cold fingers were thin and smooth, almost effeminate, but there was nothing effeminate about his face. True, it was smooth and fine-boned, from temples to cheekbones to cleanly shaved chin. But there was a hardness apparent in every line that spoke of strength, not fragility. Grigori wondered how old the newcomer was.

  'Viento,' the second man said, thrusting out his hand.

  'Pleased to meet you.' The tavern keeper nodded, surprised at how similar the two men were. Perhaps they were brothers. 'Come, give me your coats and take a seat by the fire. These are my friends, Piotre and Danovich. Piotre, will you get our guests a drink and some stew while I see to their horses?'

  'We have no horses, I'm afraid.' Calixte said, waving his hand in airy dismissal. There was arrogance in the gesture that the tavern keeper didn't care for. After all, he was a free man, not a serf. Still, this was no time to be taking slights. There were more pressing issues.

  'And you need not worry about food,' Viento added, patting his belly and winking at his host 'That's where our last horse went little more than an hour ago. A shame, if we'd known we were so near… Well, no matter.'

  'Well then,' Grigori said, 'you'll take a drink with us at least.'

  'Glad to.' Calixte smiled, baring a set of perfect white teeth.

  Grigori went to the counter and filled two cups. He managed to hold back the question that had been burning within him until they had clinked the pottery together and drunk a toast to the Tsarina.

  'How long ago did you meet my son?' he asked, even as the fiery spirit burned its way down his throat.

  'Petrokov was your son?' Calixte asked. 'I see now why you were so keen to welcome us in. Not that you wouldn't have been anyway, of course.'

  Again, that tone of condescension. Grigori ignored it and waited for an answer. Calixte took another drink before obliging him.

  'We met him two days ago, on the road to Kislev. It was dusk, so we shared a fire and a meal. That's when he told us of your, ah, problem.'

  'So you know? Good, good. But where is Petrokov, now?'

  'Don't sound so worried, old man.' Viento chipped in with a patronizing grin. 'He's quite safe. He went on to Kislev.'

  'Yes. You see, when he told us of your problem we weren't really interested. No offence, obviously, but we like to be paid in gold, not food and lodging.'

  'After all, we're warriors, not plough horses!' Viento exclaimed, and laughed loudly at his own witticism. Piotre and Danovich smiled weakly. Grigori ignored him.

  Calixte shook his head and looked apologetically at the tavern keeper before continuing.

  'Anyway, the day after we had bid your son farewell, this weather started. We come from the south, you see, and didn't expect it. So we thought that, as we're not going
to be able to make it to anywhere civilized until the snows let up, we might as well take up Petrokov's offer. If it still stands, of course.'

  'Oh, it still stands,' Grigori said. He realized that he was sucking the tip of his moustache again and hastily spat it out. 'A season's food and board if you kill that… that thing.'

  'Thing? You mean the vampire?'

  Piotre and Danovich glanced nervously at the door, as if the very mention of the deamon would summon him like a rabbit from a conjuror's hat. Grigori restrained himself, focusing instead of his guest. The young man seemed to be genuinely sanguine about the idea of taking on such a foe. Relaxed, even. It occurred to Grigori that if this was no more than arrogance, then sending the young fool out might do more harm than good.

  'Tell me, Lesec…'

  'Please, call me Calixte.'

  'Calixte, then. Have you ever fought against a… a vampire before?'

  'Yes. On occasion. They are terrible to behold, I know. Wonderful and terrible. They are like life. Or rather, life magnified until it becomes unbearable.' Grigori was surprised at the sadness in his guests tone. 'But their weaknesses are as great as their strengths. Even a flame which burns as brightly as the sun can be extinguished.'

  'You sound as though you sympathize with them,' the tavern keeper said. Calixte shrugged unapologetically.

  'I hunt them. Don't you love the deer your arrows find?'

  'Yes.'

  'Well then.'

  'I meant no offence.'

  'Of course not. Don't trouble yourself.' Calixte smiled, his teeth white in the gloom of the tavern. 'Now, what of this vampire? Which of the blood lines is it of?'

  'Blood lines?'

  'Yes. Which, ah, family?'

  Grigori exchanged a puzzled look with his friends.

  'I don't know about its family,' the tavern keeper admitted 'Or even that a vampire could have such a thing. Do you think that their might be more than one, then?'

  'No, I meant… it doesn't matter. Can you tell me what it looks like?'

  Grigori nodded, shifting uncomfortably.

  'It is bigger than a man, maybe as big as an ogre. And strong. It tore the door to the Bodoyen's cabin off steel hinges then flung it twenty yards. By the Tsarina, I hope they didn't suffer,' Grigori muttered, the vision of that massacre rising like some dead thing from the pool of his memory. There had been eight of them packed into their cabin, three generations of the same family. Yet when he had called around with the grandfather's monthly jar of vodka, the hovel had been empty, as hollow as a bone with the marrow sucked out.

  'And it's cunning, too.' The tavern keeper dragged his mind away from the image. 'It took Ilyich and Radan, and they were nobody's fools. Even when they were drunk they moved through the forest like ghosts, letting it whisper its secrets to them like an old friend. We lost them in the first week of winter. Nothing left of them but blood on the snow. Gods, but I've never seen a brighter red.'

  'Yes,' Calixte said thoughtfully. 'And when did it start hunting here?'

  'Autumn,' Grigori said, tonelessly. 'That's when it killed the peddler. We found him floating in the shallows of the river, drained. That's how we knew that it was a… vampire.'

  'And have you seen it?' Calixte prompted gently, his arrogance gone now, replaced by a sort of breathless eagerness.

  'Not me, but my friend, Ivan. He was checking his snares up by the Bear's Teeth when he saw the thing. Big, like I said. Naked, with muscles like knotted rope. Almost like a man, except for the head.'

  'The head?'

  'Yes. He said it was like a bat's, a giant bat's but without the fur.'

  'Let me talk to this man Ivan.'

  'You can't. He's gone.'

  'Gone?'

  'Dead. Suicide.'

  The crackling of the fire grew loud in the silence that followed. Grigori stared numbly into its depths. You bastard Ivan, he thought. Why didn't you come and talk to me?

  'Why?'

  'What?' Startled from his reverie Grigori looked up, seeing the eagerness in Calixte's face.

  'Why did he kill himself?'

  'The vampire was carrying a child when he saw it. A little girl. She was screaming, he said. And even after the vampire had passed his hiding place and taken her down into the labyrinth he could hear her screaming still. Even when he got home. Even at night. So…' The tavern keeper waved his hand helplessly.

  Calixte and Viento exchanged a hungry glance.

  'Excellent,' said Calixte, rubbing his hands together with glee. He might have been a small child looking forward to a treat. 'Then we know where the strigoi lives. A hole in the ground. How typical!'

  Once more Viento laughed, loudly and alone.

  'Tomorrow morning you will take us to this place.' Calixte decided. 'Until then we will sleep. Where are our beds?'

  'This way,' Grigori said, rising to his feet. It was no longer in him to resent the mercenary's arrogance. His thoughts were too full of Ivan's hanging body and his son's lonely ride to Kislev.

  THE NIGHT WAS long. Although he tried to sleep, Grigori found himself staring blindly at the smoke stained rafters above his cot. It was partly the cold of the draughty loft that stole his rest, partly the sweaty heat of his horrible and nebulous nightmares. Most of all, it was the thought of what he must do tomorrow: what he must face.

  Yet when the grey light of dawn did finally come he felt relief more than anything, relief that the waiting was over.

  Calixte and Viento were up before him.

  'Ah, there you are.' Calixte nodded to him as he made his way down to the tavern room. 'I was about to wake you. Well, come along then. Let's be off.'

  Grigori tried to restrain his usual early morning temper.

  'We'll go when I've eaten,' he growled, pushing past the two would-be vampire hunters to breathe fresh life back into the fire. That done, he put on water for his porridge and measured out a spoon of dried tea leaves into a mug; after a moment's thought he added another, and then a lump of precious honey. It had come all the way from distant Lustria, according to the peddler who had sold it to him. He had been saving it for a special occasion, but somehow he couldn't shake off the feeling that if he didn't use it now he never would.

  'How long will it take you to get ready?' Calixte snapped. Grigori sipped his tea and tried not to smile at the young man's show of nerves. How often had he seen it before, this transformation from fearless warrior to hapless soldier as tavern nights gave way to cold mornings?

  'Let an old man finish his porridge and we'll be gone. Have no fear, we'll be there soon enough.'

  Grigori was scraping his bowl clean when Piotre and Danovich arrived. With one look at their faces the tavern keeper knew why they had come. He was proud of them.

  'Good morning,' Piotre said, swallowing nervously and trying to smile.

  'Morning,' Grigori replied. Calixte and Viento grunted.

  'Have some porridge?' Grigori offered.

  'No, I… no,' Danovich muttered, looking a little queasy.

  Conversation stopped so that the only sounds were Grigori's slurping, the hiss of the fire and the tap of Viento's boots as he paced nervously up and down the room.

  'Right,' Grigori said, pushing his bowl away. 'If you gentlemen will just give me five minutes for a pipe, then we can begin.'

  Calixte sighed theatrically and rolled his eyes.

  'I'm ready when you are,' Piotre said, miserably.

  'You two are going nowhere,' Grigori told him.

  'We want to come with you,' Danovich muttered, unconvincingly.

  'Rubbish. Why hire a dog when you can bark yourself?' Grigori inhaled a lungful of smoke and watched Calixte. But if he had heard the insult he gave no sign; he merely beat his fingertips against the well-tooled leather of his scabbard.

  'It's—' Piotre began, but Grigori cut him off.

  'You're not going,' he said, taking another pull on his pipe. He waited until the bowl was empty before pulling himself to his feet. He handed Piotre the
key to the tavern and headed out into the snow.

  His two friends watched him go as he led the mercenaries away into the distance. Between the vast grey slabs of sky and snow, the three dark figures looked tiny. Hopeless.

  'Good old Grigori,' Danovich said with a sigh of relief.

  THE WINDS OF the night before had dwindled and died. Now the air lay still and sullen, as thick as oil beneath the towering weight of the snow clouds above.

  Despite the oppressive weather, Grigori felt strangely light-hearted. As he swished through the snow, plodding along on his favorite snowshoes, he caught himself humming. At one point he even began to whistle, the tuneless note drawing stares of disapproval from Calixte and Viento.

  And quite right, too, Grigori thought. In this silent wilderness, such shrill noises could bring only disaster.

  He looked back at his two companions. They were making heavy going across the snow, stomping and backsliding and kicking up great drifts. More than once he had suggested a rest stop, but the two mercenaries were intent on pushing on.

  The tavern keeper was a little surprised by their perseverance, and a new respect for them began to grow. They must be fit indeed to be able to keep up with him whilst stumbling along like that.

  Midday came. The sun glowered low and unseen beyond the snow fogged horizon, and they reached the outer tendrils of the Staslav forest. An ocean of black pine stretched, as far as Grigori knew, right up to the edge of the world.

  'We'll stop here,' he told his companions, halting on the top of a ridge.

  'No, let's press on,' Calixte said, with hardly a trace of the breathlessness Grigori expected. 'We want to take this strigoi during the day. They're weaker then.'

  'So I've heard,' Grigori nodded. 'Five minutes won't matter, though. I want to rest and eat something before the last leg.'

  For a moment he thought that Calixte was going to argue, but the young man just grunted with barely disguised ill grace and turned to Viento.

  'Won't this animal be surprised to see us?' he said, gloating as if their prey was already dead.