[Warhammer] - Dreadfleet Read online

  Roth reached down again, not daring to look away, and was rewarded with the jagged remains of a table leg. He brought the improvised cudgel round in front of him, parrying the creature’s next thrust and narrowly avoiding being run through. The force of the blow had almost numbed his arm. This thing was a lot stronger than it looked.

  The man o’ bones was upon him, slashing with its rusted blade. Its diamond eyes shone crazily in the firelight. Roth yelled in frustration as flames licked his face. His beard caught fire and his hair crackled and curled.

  Grinding his teeth, Roth smacked the creature’s guard wide open with his table leg, bodily charging it and slamming it into the burning tapestry on the wall. They collided so violently that the captain felt the creature’s ribs break against the timbered wall. Roth pinned its bony wrist with his shoulder, forcing its sword out wide. He yanked hard at the heavy tapestry, pulling it down over his assailant’s head, and bundled the man o’ bones to the floor. Coughing hard, Roth stamped on the thing under the tapestry until it stopped moving altogether. He batted out the fires in his hair and beard before pulling his father’s blade from its broken remains, shoving the table leg into his belt, just in case.

  Suppressing another coughing fit, Roth battered his way into the forequarters of the burning galleon-house.

  “Lisabet?” he shouted again, anxiety choking him as much as smoke. “Armando? Father?”

  Cutlery and chairs lay scattered everywhere, drawers were pulled out and cabinets smashed open. The shattered remains of three men o’ bones lay in awkward heaps across the ruined furniture, bones blackening and seaweed curling in the heat.

  Roth picked his way through the debris, tripping over the body of a well-dressed man cut down in his prime. A rusted cutlass protruded from his throat, and his fine white doublet was stained crimson with blood. Each hand still held a short sword of exceptional craftsmanship. He looked somehow familiar. Broad shoulders, strong chin, large nose…

  The realisation slammed into him like a punch to the heart. It was the corpse of Armando, his only son and heir.

  The captain collapsed to his knees, his face contorting into a mask of remorse. The last time he had seen the lad had been on his seventh birthday. A cruel wound to deal a young boy, leaving without saying goodbye. Now that wound would never heal.

  Roth’s fear and trepidation turned to hot rage. Shouting incoherently, he barged through the half-burning door at the far end of the dining room and entered an antechamber filled with his father’s trophy weapons. Dozens of handguns, thrice-pistols, Arabyan jezzailachis, antique flintlocks and Cathayan firesticks lined the shelves. Roth dimly remembered his childish glee whenever his father had let him use the armoury’s contents to repel any pirate scum stupid or desperate enough to try and rob them. Memories, foolish and useless. His wife was in here somewhere.

  Roth barrelled through into the last of his father’s studies, a large and well-furnished room lined with flame-lit portholes. The blaze had yet to breach it. A confusion of flesh, bone and cloth lay tangled on the floor.

  A sick dread melted into Roth’s chest as he neared the first of the bloodstained corpses. He recognised the long, tousled hair instantly, though it was grey now instead of black. He had called her his sea-siren because of that glorious mane. That and the way she sang in the morning to lure him into her bathing quarters.

  Roth closed his eyes for a moment, his chest shaking. His Lisabet. They’d had their differences, by the gods. There had even been times when they couldn’t stand the sight of each other. But she’d done nothing to deserve this. He planted a kiss on her cold cheek, and rested his forehead on hers for a second before staggering to his feet.

  Roth’s tear-blurred gaze fell on the body of an old man hunched protectively in the far corner of the room, and he cried out in anguish. Around him lay the bodies of at least a dozen men o’ bones. It was hard to tell how many, but the veteran had clearly fought like a manticore before falling. Indigio Roth, the Mapwright of Tilea—once an intellectual giant, now sad and sunken in death.

  Roth picked his way over to the mortal remains of the man who had once been his whole world. The body was still warm and the blood saturating his clothes had not yet clotted. The mapwright was slumped across a sepia-tinged turtle shell propped against the wall, the very same shell in which his father had bathed him as a baby. Memories of laughter and fireside stories came flooding back. Roth sobbed heavily and collapsed to the floor as his old life burned around him.

  The snap-crack of hot sap brought him back to his senses. If he died too, the whole Roth bloodline would be turned to ash, without blessing from Morr or Manann. He was too late to save his family, but the least he could do was give them the rites of the dead. Burial at sea was out of the question, so the loam of the coast would have to do.

  Roth cradled his father’s body in a last embrace. Careless with his grief, he knocked over the burnished turtle shell that his father had died to protect. Underneath it were two metallic artefacts. One was a spyglass the length of his arm, its golden rim glinting in the firelight as it protruded from a leather map-case. Next to the spyglass was a clockwork moondial of exceptional craftsmanship. Roth frowned, for he did not recognise either of the strange treasures, and he had thought he knew every last trinket in this place. Still, there was no time to study them. On impulse, he quickly slung the map-case across his shoulder and clipped the moondial’s case onto his belt.

  Roth glanced down, noticing a cracked parchment pinned to the underside of the turtle shell. It was all whorls, spirals, and strange nautical horrors, much like the paintings the mapwright used to make after his fateful last journey. Garbled text and elaborate scrollwork floated across the map, and curling gibberish wound into a gnashing vortex on its right hand side.

  The captain shook his head in sad bewilderment. Yet another depiction of the Galleon’s Graveyard, no doubt. Still, the old man had died to protect it. Roth pushed it into the map case slung over his shoulder.

  Smoke was billowing under the door. Roth knew that there was no way he could fight his way back through the heart of the galleon. It belonged to the flames now. Taking a deep breath, he stamped back through the bone-strewn study and burst into the antechamber behind, into the dining quarters. He carefully hoisted the body of his son over his shoulder and strode back into the study, snatching up a handful of fat barrelled Cathayan firesticks and a thrice-pistol as he went.

  Forcing down his despair, the captain leant the corpses of his three closest relatives against the far wall. He could not bring himself to look at them, so instead he hurriedly stacked the firesticks against the nearest porthole to the door. Roth made the sign of the trident, and then that of the twin-tailed comet, just to be on the safe side. He took the thrice-pistol, primed and ready as he knew it would be, and shielded himself with the lacquered turtle shell before firing off a single shot.

  The firesticks exploded with a tremendous boom, bowling Roth over and filling the room with dust and flying splinters. When he blinked his vision back, the porthole had been blown outward, along with a large chunk of the study wall. His ears ringing, Roth dropped the bodies of his family from the smoking hole. Tears fell from his cheeks at the ignominy of throwing his loved ones onto the street below.

  Count Noctilus was going to pay.

  The red sun rose upon a soot-blackened, blood-streaked figure digging a deep hole in the sandy earth just above the beachline of Skeeter Bay.

  Hours before, far out to sea, there had been the crack-boom of cannon fire and the flash of explosions. Taking a brief respite from his labours, Roth had used his father’s spyglass to watch the battle unfold. The device had given the captain an uncannily perfect view of the battle as it unfolded, but he was too exhausted to dwell on it.

  To their credit, the Sartosan warships that had made it out to sea had attempted to intercept the Dreadfleet, but they achieved little more than losing five of their warships against a clearly superior foe. The battle had ended abru
ptly when the Dreadfleet faded into the fog.

  His face set in an expression of cold determination, Roth had continued to dig. His crew, having tracked down their captain since the invading army’s unaccountable withdrawal, stood a respectful distance away. Some passed round a bottle of spirits, others lit pipes or slouched onto the sand of the beach.

  As the skies burned pink and orange above the waters, the captain placed pennies upon the eyelids of the bodies in the grave-pit and began to shovel a thick blanket of sandy earth atop them. Exhaustion etched his features but his movements grew more and more certain with every shovelful.

  “I promise you, blood of my blood,” he said, “I will be a good father to you now, even though it is too late. I give my oath to you, Lisabet my love, that I will cherish your memory and not run from my duty again. I swear to you, my father, that I will make you proud of me, and banish the devils that haunted you.”

  Behind him, his crew shared worried glances. Some began to drift back to the Nightwatch. Roth’s first mate, the balding giant the men called Salt Pietr, began to sing a dirge for the safe passage of the dead. One by one, the remaining crew took up the tune, mournful and slow.

  Oblivious, Roth raged on through gritted teeth.

  “By my troth, I will do it. In the name of the Seafather, I swear to you that I will rid the world of the evils that took you. I will persecute and destroy that which keeps you from Manann’s holy embrace.”

  Roth’s words grew louder, his anger pushing aside the guilt and the sadness that had haunted him before the dawn. “I know the beast’s name. I know his ship. I know the vessels of his allies, ghosts and daemons though they be. I shall gather allies of my own, and an army of murderers, and I shall hunt that black beast to the very bottom of the sea. This I swear!”

  His voice caught with emotion as he drew his father’s sword and thrust it high, its blade catching the first rays of the new dawn.

  “This I vow upon the bodies of my kin. This I swear to Manann, to Morr, to Sigmar, to Myrmidia; to all the gods of the world!”

  Roth strode waist-deep into the water, his father’s sword held high. Tear-streaked face caked with soot and filth, he splashed and reeled as if drunk on anger and madness.

  “Count Noctilus, hear me!” he screamed, shaking the shining blade at the new dawn. “I will find you, beast! I will find you and see you burn!”

  PART TWO

  THE MUSTER

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Reikstemple, Altdorf docks

  1st Day of Jahrdrung, 2522

  The Nightwatch lay at anchor, nestled among hundreds of Imperial vessels that were moored along the mile-wide stretch of the River Reik. The sleek galleon’s pirate colours were hidden below decks. In their stead flew the flags of a merchantman, and the Sartosans that teemed upon its decks were clad in tunics and tabards that had, not so long ago, belonged to the crew of the Little Madam, a prosperous trader out of Marienburg.

  No more than two hundred yards ahead of the Nightwatch loomed the legendary Sigmarite galleon Heldenhammer. Shining in the sun, the flagship was an insane display of grandeur, for she was the command vessel of the Grand Theogonist himself. The sheer ambition of her construction was astonishing.

  Captain Roth strode along the riverside dock toward the vast warship, doing his best not to gawp like a yokel. He couldn’t help but crane his neck to take in the sheer size of the thing. The cliff face of the Heldenhammer’s aftquarters rose above even the house of worship upon which she had been styled, and the midday sunshine reflected with blinding intensity from row upon row of stained glass portholes, each depicting a scene from the saga of Sigmar. Four square steeples bracketed the warship’s Grand Templus, pierced with arrow slits and bisected with exterior stairways. Between them, seabirds whirled above a slate-grey roof that rose giddily above triumphal friezes showing the victories of man.

  The pale stone of the Templus itself was lined with dozens of alcoves, each housing a towering golden relief that immortalised one of the previous Grand Theogonists—the current incumbent, Volkmar the Grim, at their head. Eagle-headed gargoyles and twin-tailed triton-kings crested every corner.

  Her great barrel chest supported a profusion of great cannons spread across four decks. Roth did a quick mental calculation: she boasted at least one hundred and eighty guns. And no ordinary cannons, either; the least of them was twice as large as the Nightwatch’s thirty-four pounders. The captain gave a low whistle under his breath. Each gun was mounted within its own peaked alcove, rendering the whole edifice like a great row of terraces built to house cannons instead of people.

  Yet as Roth neared the front of the flagship, all thoughts of temples and Imperial great cannons were left behind. Sigmar’s Wrath was the Heldenhammer’s signature weapon and its symbol all in one—a bronze statue rivalling the Altdorf Colossus, bearded and crowned in the likeness of the Empire’s warrior god. In the statue’s hands was a titanic replica of Ghal-Maraz, the Skull-Splitter, most potent of warhammers and symbol of the Empire ascendant.

  The statue was held upright by great chains that led into a massive steam engine in the galleon’s forecastle. The stories had it that as the Heldenhammer rammed an enemy warship it would disengage the steam clamps that held Sigmar’s Wrath upright, and a hundred tons of thrice-blessed bronze would arc down from the galleon’s prow, bringing the statue’s titanic warhammer crashing down through its victim’s deck.

  It was with this mighty warship that Captain Roth intended to smash the Bloody Reaver apart.

  He just needed to convince the Grand Theogonist to let him take it first.

  The interior of the Reikstemple was oppressively thick with incense. As far as Roth was concerned, everything about the great building was oppressive—the soaring colonnades, the gloomy candlelight, the dolorous harmonies of Sierck’s Unberogen sung by devout sisters hidden in the naves.

  Around the insides of the temple’s main dome stood twelve massive statues that held up the roof, each one an idealised representation of one of Sigmar’s chieftains. The candlelight was so dim, and the temple so large, that Roth could barely see beyond their knees. Whispered conversations rustled in the galleries ranged about the stained-glass viewing slits above. Maybe, thought Roth, they should have spent some of the Empire’s endless wealth on putting in some proper windows.

  At the feet of each statue stood a warrior priest of Sigmar, bowed in reverence, a warhammer clasped to his chest. Men of action forced into pomp and formal ceremony. What a waste. It made Roth feel slightly uncomfortable even to watch.

  Sitting in a throne at the heart of the wide chamber was Grand Theogonist Volkmar himself, a great bald patriarch of a man with eyes like hard coals. His throne was flanked by two rearing griffons of jade and gold, lit from the inside by carefully placed candles. Complex shadows flickered across the Theogonist’s humourless face.

  A kneeling man in front of Volkmar was begging him for some favour or other, his demeanour that of a mendicant, though his clothes were those of a prince. Volkmar’s expression suggested that he had been proffered walrus droppings instead of asked for a boon. With a quick, hard gesture, he dismissed the unfortunate supplicant, who was led away roughly by a pair of robed attendants who looked like they could go three rounds with Salt Pietr and come out smiling. That was something Roth could admire about the Cult of Sigmar, at any rate—its preachers looked more like dockside pugilists than weedy clergymen. Seven out of the twelve warrior priests had a broken nose, and two were badly burnt. Roth nodded slowly to himself. Perhaps there was a chance that they would aid him after all.

  The Grand Theogonist slammed a gauntleted hand onto the arm of his throne, the thunderclap sound echoing down the naves as he stared straight at Roth.

  “Next!”

  The captain removed his feathered hat and strode straight into the heart of the central chamber. It felt as if he were stepping into a gladiatorial arena. The Sigmarite priests ranged about the circle shuffled and stood forward, grippi
ng their warhammers in earnest. Roth snorted. Anyone would think that sickle-handed pirate lords were unusual visitors to his holiness’ inner sanctum.

  “Make it quick, I’ve a war to win,” said Volkmar. His voice had the tone of one born to command.

  “I am Captain Jaego Roth, son of Indigio Roth, the Mapwright of Tilea. I have come to request your aid against the forces of undeath.”

  “Is that so?” replied the Theogonist. “I met your father, once. I have several of his works in my sanctum. A great man. Certainly a man of honour.” The Grand Theogonist paused, meaningfully. Though that is not what they say about his son. And you would do well to address me as befits my position, Captain.”

  Roth’s blood ran hot. The slumped corpse of his dead father flashed across his vision.

  “Blast your etiquette and your games,” spat Roth, colour rushing to his face. “My father is dead, and half of Sartosa with him. It’s the same story up and down the coast of Tilea. Your precious Empire will be next, mark me. There’s an unholy terror out there upon the waters of the world, a blight upon the ocean, and I intend to do something about it!”

  There was a long and deadly silence. Dust motes danced in what little light bled in from the stained glass above.

  “I see,” said Volkmar, leaning forward upon his steel gauntlets. Amusement flickered in his eyes, all but hidden among the shadows. “Speak on, Captain Roth.”

  “The Sea-Curse,” continued Roth, somewhat surprised that he had not been struck by divine lightning after his outburst. “You Sigmarites must know of it. It takes the dead. It takes whatever dies at sea and it brings them back to life as something foul. Mergheists, men o’ bones, call ’em what you will. They used to be men. Men that deserved to go to their gods, not to be trapped in a land of ghosts.”