Savage City, page 1
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 Worlds 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 nearer, the Empire needs heroes like never before.
PROLOGUE
‘You. Stop dragging the chain.’ Gul’s captor didn’t bother to raise his voice. Instead, he let his whip speak for him. The blur of it snapped through the darkness to bite into flesh.
A line of white-hot pain scribbled itself across Gul’s back. He stumbled forward clumsily, tripping on the rough stone floor of the tunnel that he was being herded down. The captive manacled to the chain gang ahead of him broke his fall. She whimpered miserably beneath the impact and his muttered apology brought another blow stinging out of the darkness.
‘No talking,’ his captor mumbled, his voice as soft as his whip was sharp.
Gul still had no idea how he had come to be here. The last thing he could remember before waking up in this terrible underworld was the fog. It had come rolling in off the sea, the vaporous depths of it creeping through the crumbling docks of Bordeleaux with the slow menace of a malignant disease. Its tendrils, thick as gruel, had reached everywhere.
The fog had brought its own distinctive smell with it, too. A smell almost thick enough to taste. It had combined rotten seaweed with dead fish, mildewed slime with drowned meat.
It was perhaps the most disgusting thing Gul had ever smelt.
That was why he had burrowed deep within a coil of ropes, his blanket over his head. But then, suddenly, the blanket had been torn away and the smell of the fog had been replaced with something else, something like burning straw.
A second later and there had been nothing.
Ahead, the tunnel twisted deeper into the living rock, the narrow passage winding through the granite like a wormhole through an apple. Gul listened to the chink of chains and heard a curse as another of the captives stumbled. Behind him somebody vomited. The retching and the splatter did little to help Gul, who had felt as sick as a potcheen drinker ever since he’d woken up.
Through the nausea he began to wonder if this was indeed a punishment of the gods.
But no. Despite his throbbing head he didn’t think so. Although their faces were no more than black holes beneath their hoods, Gul was sure that his captors were mortal men. What was more, the air which chilled this dank labyrinth was tinged with the familiar scent of brine, and his grandmother had been quite definite about daemons breathing sulphur.
Slightly reassured, Gul concentrated on keeping his feet. The stone underfoot had become treacherous and he edged his way forward with practiced care.
After perhaps an hour a sound began to whisper along the passageway. It throbbed like the heart of some great and slumbering beast, a low, hungry murmur that sent an edge of panic racing through the captives’ veins.
Gul realised, however, that this was no monster. It was just the sea, her waves washing up against some hidden shoreline. Shale began to crunch beneath his bare feet as the tunnel widened and gradually flared open into a natural cave. Beyond it, framed by an arc of stone like the stage of a moonlit theatre, lay a beach.
The score of chained captives stumbled out into the pale light, their manacles glinting like silver in the luminescence. Granite heights towered up all around them, dizzying ramparts that crowded out the sky on all sides apart from the west. Here, the sea held sway, the rolling beat of its restless immensity sending phosphorescent waves spuming upwards towards the stars.
‘Stop.’
The chain gang staggered to a ragged halt. Gul shivered, his nerves combining with the chill sea breeze to send a sudden spasm through his body.
‘No moving,’ a guard said, and snapped his whip with lazy sadism.
More pain. This time, though, it served Gul well. The sting of the blow served to cut through the dizziness that had been with him since he’d woken. Shaking in cold and fear, he peered into the shadows of the imprisoning cliffs, studying the cove for any chance of escape. What he saw instead was the first movement from the men who had been lurking there.
‘Welcome, my old friends.’ The voice which oiled out from the darkness was as smooth as a viper. ‘It is a joy to behold you once more. And in such good health!’
‘Likewise,’ one of Gul’s captors said and paced warily towards the hidden speaker. Although he wore the same shapeless robes as his fellows, this man was clearly their leader. Everything from the tone of his voice to the set of his shoulders marked him out as such.
For a moment, the captain stood alone on the sand, his hood giving him a monstrous appearance in the moonlight.
‘Come, my old friend,’ he said, speaking with the careful insouciance of a man who knows the danger of sounding afraid. ‘Let us embrace. For old times’ sake.’
‘Of course,’ the voice from the shadows said and, moving with a reluctance which was strangely at odds with the honey of his words, the lurker waddled out onto the sand.
Despite the high dome of his helmet he was as short and round as a barrel. He wheezed as he paced through the sand, his chest heaving as he threw back his robes and spread his arms wide open. The gesture of trust was belied by the flash of burnished steel that armoured the roll of his stomach, but Gul was no longer paying attention to these details.
Instead, all his attention was focused on the thing that had lumbered out of the shadows after the fat man.
It was like something from a nightmare. Although vaguely human in shape, the thing was at least twice the size of any man Gul had ever seen. Its black silhouette loomed up into the night as it advanced, the elephantine thud of its feet flattening the sand.
In the gloom its head was as featureless as a boulder, but Gul could make out the pinpricks of its eyes. They gleamed with an animal intelligence as the beast studied the chain of captives. To Gul, the gleam seemed horribly hungry.
As it drew nearer, a chorus of moans and sobs rose up from the captives. They shifted, and for a moment it looked as if the whole chained line was about to stampede.
The guards had obviously been expecting this moment.
‘Stay still,’ they chorused. Whips hissed gleefully, snapping against bruised flesh as the captives were herded back into a straight line. More than one of them was weeping with pure terror as the thing from the darkness ground to a halt behind its master, its silvered eyes never leaving the prisoners.
The fat man giggled in delight.
‘Ah, I see that my bodyguard is creating his usual impression,’ he said smugly, and quickly embraced the other man.
‘That and the magnificence of your presence, of course.’
‘Magnificence, yes.’ An invisible smile was evident in the fat man’s voice. ‘I just wish that I could pay your merchandise here the same compliment.’
Gul’s captor barked, an explosion of humourless laughter.
‘Don’t worry about that, my old friend, because your customers certainly will. Once this consignment is cleaned and rested you will see they are the best yet.’
The fat man waved a plump hand through the air, as if to brush the claim away.
‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Please don’t denigrate yourself. The last consignment was much better.’
‘For field slaves, perhaps. But this time we have rarer goods. See here.’
So saying, the hooded merchant led his client towards the line, which shifted uneasily as the fat man’s monstrous bodyguard drew nearer.
Gul, sweating despite the shivers which racked his scrawny body, felt his throat tightening with terror. A splash of moonlight illuminated the monster’s smashed visage, revealing a ravenous leer.
So great was his terror that he barely noticed the two slavers that had strolled over to stand in front of him.
‘Now look at this one,’ the hooded man said, and waved a hand in Gul’s direction. For a moment he thought that it was him that the man was singling out. Then he realised that it was the girl beside him.
‘Exactly. You can see what I mean,’ the shorter man said, pretending not to catch the other’s meaning. ‘She’s so thin that she’ll hardly be of use in the fields, let alone the lapis mines.’
Again, Gul’s captor choked on the attempt at laughter.
‘Here, you,’ he called out to one of his men. ‘Bring that lantern over here so that I and my old friend can see the mistake he has made.’
The man hurried over, lanter
Squinting against the sudden brightness, Gul looked across at his fellow prisoner and the breath caught in his throat.
For one heart-stopping moment he was sure that she was Maria, his childhood sweetheart. Her button-nosed profile, still sweet despite the glistening of tears; the sweep of her corn-silk hair was tangled after her ordeal. Even the way she hugged herself against the cold, arms clasped over the torn cloth of her tunic. These and a dozen other details filled Gul with dumb-witted amazement. But then his eyes cleared and so did his wits. Although she could have been her twin, the girl who was chained next to him wasn’t Maria. He felt slightly guilty at the disappointment he felt.
‘Now look at her properly,’ Gul’s captor told the merchant. ‘See the colour of her hair? It’s so yellow it’s almost white. And look at the shape of her. She’s skinny all right, but only in the right places!’
‘Hmm,’ the fat man rumbled, his face remaining impassive. He reached out a podgy hand towards the girl and, as casually as a man examining a horse, he tilted her head to examine the roots of her hair. When she pulled away he slapped her, hard across the face.
Gul’s face twisted into an unconscious snarl.
‘I suppose she might have some value,’ the fat man admitted, dropping his hand to the girl’s shoulder and turning her around. She stumbled and he slapped her again, this time across the back of her head.
‘Stand still you silly–’ he began to complain.
Suddenly, to his own surprise, Gul found himself speaking. ‘Leave her alone, you bloated toad!’ he spat, his clenched fists raised as high as the manacles would allow.
Despite the fact that his challenger remained shackled, the merchant sprang backwards with a squeal of alarm. ‘Bran,’ he squeaked, scrabbling around the hulking monster who waited behind him. ‘Help!’
After a second of confusion, the thing shrugged and lumbered forward. As the great slabs of its hands reached towards him Gul began to realise what a mistake he’d made.
‘No, wait,’ he cried. His rage had deserted him now, scoured away by the molten intensity of those inhuman eyes. He tried to pull back, but the pressure of the other captives in the chain gang held him as fast as a fly in a spider’s web. Before he could struggle further, hands as big as hams seized him with bone-snapping strength. The gristle in his skinny shoulders crunched and he screamed in pain as he was lifted from the ground. For a moment the great beast held him close, the stench of its breath strong enough to make his eyes water.
‘Well, go on then,’ its master said with a vindictive whine.
Through a prism of tears, Gul snatched a last glance at the girl who was cowering on the shale of the beach.
Oh Lady, he thought, as a gaping maw of blunted teeth descended on him. Why couldn’t I have been born one of the duke’s oxen? And with that thought, the jaws closed and his short, hard life was over.
The chief slaver watched the last of the longboats pulling away through the surf. The vessel sliced easily through the rolling waves, her prow lifted high by the weight of the ogre in the stern. Beyond this boat lay half a dozen more, and beyond them the three-masted silhouette of the merchant’s ship waited on the dark horizon.
The captives’ journey, the slaver knew, had only just begun.
A sudden memory of what the ogre had done to the boldest of them flashed through his thoughts, and a smile crept across his features. It usually took hours for these damned Arabyans to get to the point, but the revolting spectacle of the ogre devouring its victim had lent a rare urgency to the proceedings.
‘Ready when you are.’
The slaver turned and found his men waiting for him, their backs bent beneath the empty chains they had to carry back. Behind them, a broken shape lay on the sand, little more than a smear in the moonlight.
His partner followed his gaze. ‘Shall we bury him?’
‘No,’ he decided. ‘Why bother? We’ll leave him for the crabs.’
And so saying he turned and led the way back into the tunnel, eager to start celebrating yet another successful business transaction.
CHAPTER ONE
The herring boat was perfectly built for the job she had been designed for. Most of her twenty-two feet was sharply angled for maximum speed, essential when chasing the great spring shoals. Beneath these sleek lines, though, her bottom was as wide and plump as a matron’s. However rich the sea, she could comfortably hold the biggest of catches.
Like every boat in Bretonnia, she had an effigy of the Lady fastened to her prow. The goddess’s wooden eyes gazed sightlessly into whatever future lay ahead of the vessel. Her blindness was perhaps fortunate, for without it she would never have been able to look so serene.
By contrast to the Lady’s expression, the man who clung to the pinnace above her looked anything but serene.
That was understandable. Florin d’Artaud was a newcomer to this profession. The unbroken lines of his well-proportioned face, the unblemished smoothness of skin, the windblown tangle of fashionably shoulder length hair – these and a dozen other details marked him out from the grizzled hands that usually sailed this boat.
He’d bought her a fortnight ago, and he’d only learnt to sail her a week after that. Perhaps that was why the wildness of his windswept hair was matched by the wildness in his eyes, and the anxiety was apparent beneath the commanding bark of his voice.
‘Take her to starboard,’ he called back, raising his voice against the snap of the sliver of canvas they were using.
At the other end of the boat, Lorenzo, who was at least grizzled enough to look the part of a sailor, heaved on the tiller. He cursed as he did so, and the wiry muscles in his arms bunched as he struggled against the current.
It was a struggle he won, and a moment later the boat wallowed ponderously to the right.
Florin grunted with satisfaction and looked ahead once more. His eyes narrowed against the spray that exploded up from beneath him, although it had already glued the shirt to his body, he barely noticed it. He was too busy concentrating on the rolling depths below, and the occasional dark patches that marred the lighter blue.
‘Shit!’ he swore suddenly as one such dark patch raced towards him. ‘Port. Go to port!’
Lorenzo hesitated for a moment, his face contorted in thought, and then hurled himself against the tiller. As he did so his cursing grew louder, and he spat his complaints into the quickening wind. ‘Why don’t you just say left and right?’ he snapped as the boat veered away from a fist of submerged rocks.
‘What?’ Florin shouted without turning his head.
‘I said, why don’t you speak Bretonnian?’ the older man yelled back. ‘Port and starboard. Why not left and right?’
‘It’s so nobody gets confused,’ Florin bellowed, raising his voice above a sudden snap and billow of the sail.
Lorenzo rolled his eyes and, deciding not to distract the lookout any further, contented himself with muttering. After all, this was no place to be distracting anybody.
Known as the Bite, this was one of the most lethal stretches of water around Bordeleaux. On one side the coast reared up in tiers of cliffs; a black rock anvil whose tiny coves were littered with the bones of countless wrecks. On the other side lay a scattering of tiny islands, barren except for the bleached guano of the birds that nested upon them.
And in between these two jaws, lying in terrible predatory wait beneath the cover of the sea, were the Bite’s granite teeth.
Florin glanced across as the last of the tiny islets slipped by to starboard and breathed a small sigh of relief. According to the real fishermen he’d bought this boat from, this marked the end of the Bite and the beginning of clear water. Unwilling to take any chances, he stayed at his post anyway, content to leave the sail half furled and Lorenzo at the tiller.
Only when the last of the islands was far behind them did he shin his way back down the pinnace, stretch the cramp out of his muscles, and clamber along the deck to where his old comrade waited.
‘What time do you think it is?’ he asked as he took his shirt off and wrung it out.
Lorenzo shrugged. ‘I’m not sure, but it must be well after noon by now.’
