01 - The Burning Shore (22 page)

Before them, rising up out of the sea of mist in the valley below, stood the
city.

Alone of all the captains, Florin had had little faith in Kereveld’s tales of
cities and gold. He hadn’t needed it. Mordicio’s vindictiveness, and the
knowledge of the terrible fruit it was likely to bear, had been enough to drive
him across the ocean and into the cloying embrace of this dank wilderness.

Not for Florin were the whispered promises and mounting greed that had
brought the others here. Not for him the dreams of wealth beyond measure lying
scattered amongst the bones of a dead race.

But now, standing on the spine of the ridge that overlooked the plateau
beyond, he felt a sudden flare of avarice in his chest.

There could be no doubt that the wizard’s tales had been at least partly
true. The buildings that struggled up through the jungle’s choking fingers were
as real as anything else in this world. As real and as inhuman.

Even from this distance it was obvious that no human hand had taken a part in
their shaping. It wasn’t just the size, although the hulking lumps of smooth
granite structures were massive. Nor was it the design, although surely no sane
human architect would craft buildings as grim as these. Even the massive central
building, which Florin guessed must be a temple, was little more than a pile of
neatly stacked cubes. Devoid of windows, clean of any decoration, it slumped broodingly amongst its smaller cousins, blind and featureless.

No. What marked this city out as something beyond the power of men was the
sterility of its polished surfaces. Not a single vine dared to blur its sharp
edges, nor a single tree stump, or tuft of grass.

Whatever had built these gargantuan structures had lent them immunity to the
wilderness, the same protection which still hung over the ruined canal.

“That’s it, that’s it!” Kereveld howled, holding the book out in front of him
with trembling hands. His eyes flitted from the stark silhouette of the central
building to a smudged ink drawing on the central pages, and he giggled horribly.

Florin, who’d been gaping at the incredible structures beyond, realised it
and closed his mouth with a snap.

“Looks like we’re here then,” he said. “What do we do now?”

“Carry on,” Kereveld told him, his voice breaking with a high-pitched laugh
that sounded a little too hysterical for Florin’s liking.

“No, we’ll inform the commander first.”

“Why waste time?” the old man snapped with impatience “It’s there, right
there! Let’s go.”

“Lorenzo, go ask Orbrant to send a runner back to van Delft. Tell him what
we’ve found.”

“Right you are, boss.”

“Tell him we’re pushing on down towards the city.”

Kereveld’s eyes creased, and for a moment he looked as smug as a child whose
tantrum has worked. Florin felt a flash of anger at the sight of it, but hid it
well. If anybody needed to be cultivated now it was the wizard.

Who knew what other pieces of useful information an enterprising man might
wheedle out of those mildewed pages of his book?

“Well then, Menheer Kereveld. Look’s like we all owe you a vote of thanks.”

“Yes,” the wizard said. “Do you think we can make the temple by nightfall?”

Florin took the hint.

“I think so. Bertrand, pop back and tell Sergeant Orbrant we’re heading on,
will you? Here, I’ll take that. I must ask you to step back, Menheer Kereveld.
Perhaps you can wait back in the main body with your servant.”

But Kereveld was oblivious to anything but the temple. He was gazing at it
with the wide-eyed rapture of true love, the rest of the world forgotten.

“Suit yourself, then,” Florin muttered, and swung the machete through a
tangle of vines to his left.

As the expedition worked its way down into the plateau, the trees once more
closed in above their heads. Soon their world had shrunk back down to the few
feet that lay on either side of them. The surrounding vegetation grew ever
thicker as they pushed on, the tangled thickets swarming with biting insects and
hungry lizards that reminded Florin of the skinks they’d run from.

One by one the men fell back exhausted, passing their machetes to those of
their fellows who waited behind. Gradually the ground levelled off, the sliding
mud of the slope giving way to a morass of rotting detritus. It reached up to
the men’s ankles, and sometimes even higher, to dump mouldy leaves and squirming
things into their boots.

The shadows lengthened, and in spite of himself Florin began to wonder if
they were on the right path. He was even thinking about returning to the ridge
to camp for the night when the men up front cut through a great hanging wall of
vines and revealed the clearing beyond.

“This is more like it,” Florin grinned and led the way forward.

“Yes, wonderful,” Lorenzo said, although there was something half-hearted
about his sarcasm. After the cloying heat and suffocating mass of the jungle the
clearing did feel wonderful.

The only undergrowth here was the elephant grass, fibrous and sharp-bladed
but easy enough to walk through. It rolled away into the distance, a great
shifting sea of green above which the dark silhouettes of the ruins seemed to
float. The light of the setting shone on the crumbling stone of their western
faces, but painted the other sides as black as the colossal shadows which lurked
behind them.

Florin drifted to a halt, the better to feel the sun on his face and the warm
breath of the wind in his hair. Then, aware of the crush behind him, he sheathed
his machete and swished his way into the knee-high grass.

The first of the buildings lay before them, the giant gravestones of a dead
civilization. But despite their glowering presence the Bretonnians laughed and
chattered as they emerged from the dank shadows of the jungle and into the light
of the sun.

“Looks like Kereveld’s found a friend,” Lorenzo said as the wizard pushed
past them and trotted, robes flapping, towards the nearest of the buildings. His
book, as always, was clamped tightly beneath one arm.

“We’d better keep an eye on him,” Florin said thoughtfully. “You stay here.
Tell Orb rant to stake out the best site to make camp.”

“Take a couple of the lads with you, boss. The Lady alone knows what could be
lurking around here.”

“No.” Florin his eyes locked firmly on the book, shook his head. “I’ll be all
right.”

“So,” Lorenzo said, the firelight twinkling in his eyes. “What about this
gold?”

“Thought you said you didn’t believe in it,” Florin chided him, and passed one
of the biscuits they’d been baking to Lundorf.

The Marienburger took it with a nod of thanks.

“Well I believe in it, anyway,” he decided, tossing the morsel from hand to
hand as it cooled. “Kereveld’s book was right about everything else, why not the
gold? Just think: there could be a fortune sitting not a hundred yards from us.
No wonder the commander posted guards on these buildings. Imagine the trouble if
someone found the loot and made off with it tonight!”

A thoughtful silence descended on the little group. Florin looked across the
campsite, where a score of similar conversations were no doubt taking place over
a score of similar campfires.

“I already know what I’m going to do with mine,” Lundorf said confidently,
and bit off a piece of his biscuit. “Stables. I’m going to build a stables, just
outside of Marienburg.”

“Not very adventurous,” Florin chided him, and found himself counting the
campfires. Up until now the men had been content to huddle around the comforting
blaze of the expedition’s cooking pits.

Tonight, though, they all seemed to have developed a taste for privacy.

“Oh, I won’t run it,” Lundorf said. “There’s a girl back home that I know.
Vienela. She can do it.”

“Vienela, hey? Got a good business head, has she?”

“Yes.”

“And a pretty face to go with it?”

Lorenzo sniggered in the darkness, and Lundorf’s even features hardened into
a fierce scowl.

“Not that that has anything to do with it, but yes.”

Florin was amazed to note that his brother officer was blushing. But before
he could tease him any further Lorenzo brought the conversation back to
business.

“So,” Lorenzo asked. “What about Kereveld’s book?”

“He showed it to you?” Lundorf wondered, obviously keen to change the
subject.

“No, he didn’t. The old goat’s not such a fool after all. Said he’d tell us
everything we needed to know.”

“Maybe he will.”

“Or maybe he’ll tell van Delft first.”

“That’s all right, then,” Lundorf said, and helped himself to a goblet of
boiled water. “As long as the commander gets hold of the gold we’ll all get our
fair share.”

Florin met Lorenzo’s disbelieving eyes over the flickering orange tongues of
the fire.

“Yes,” he said. “Just as you say, Lundorf. But if we find the gold first we
can be sure that it’s appropriately accounted for.”

“I see what you mean. I don’t see why Kereveld wouldn’t want to help us
recover this damned treasure, though. It’s why we’re here.”

“Although not why he’s here.”

“And why’s that?”

“The gods alone know.”

There was a muffled clink to one side of their fire and a huddle of figures,
Kislevites by their silhouettes, slunk past and out into the night. Two of them
had swapped their axes for spades, and Florin cursed himself for forgetting to
buy his own men such tools.

“Wonder where they’re going,” Lorenzo muttered suspiciously, straining his
eyes to follow them into the darkness.

“So do they,” Florin muttered, gesturing to the pair of Tileans who slipped
stealthily along in their wake. A moment later both parties had disappeared into
the unbroken night outside of the encampment.

Lundorf finished the last of his biscuit and washed it down with the water.

“What I wouldn’t give for a decent cask of brandy,” he sighed, swishing the
flat water around his mouth. “Boiled water just never tastes right.”

“Luckily,” Lorenzo smoothly cut in, “I remembered to bring some tea-leaves.
They kept well, too. Always the way with the best quality green.”

“Wish I’d thought of that,” Lundorf shook his head.

“Would you like some of these?”

“Well yes, thank you,” the Marienburger nodded, taken aback by this old
scoundrel’s generosity.

“What are friends for?” Lorenzo said, and opened his satchel to pull out half
a dozen sealed tins, each as big as a fist. Cracking open the lid of one he
peered inside, took a sniff, and then, satisfied, closed it up and tossed it to
Lundorf.

“I say,” Lundorf smiled, taking a sniff himself. “This is excellent stuff.
Thank you!”

“Don’t mention it,” Lorenzo grinned wide enough to show all six of his teeth.
“And because you’re a friend I’ll only ask for a dozen crowns.”

“Oh, I see. I thought… well, never mind. The thing is, though, I’m a bit
short at the moment. Swamptown, you know.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Lorenzo soothed. “Just give me what you can and pay
the rest later.”

“Oh. All right then.”

Florin watched Lundorf fumble for his purse and felt a sudden twitch of
nostalgia. The first time he’d met Lorenzo it had cost him dear, too. His father
had wanted it that way; he had used Lorenzo as a tame fire in which his son
could burn their fingers.

His father. A good man, killed by the broken heart of his wife’s death.

Florin thought about him as he studied the vast cemetorial shapes that
towered beyond this little circle of light. They blocked out great swathes of
the starlit sky, the spaces within their sharp silhouettes so completely black
that they might have been gateways into some dark, empty void.

With a sudden prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck he wondered if
it would be so long until he met his parents again.

Somehow, sitting in the midst of this terrible wilderness and surrounded by
the monolithic shells of a long dead race, he didn’t think so.

He shivered and spat into the fire as if to exorcise the idea.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “I’m going to try and get hold of Kereveld’s book. Then
we’re going to get the treasure. And then we’re going to get the hell out of
here.”

“Finally,” Lorenzo said, looking up from the handful of coins Lundorf had
given him. “Some sense.”

But, unknown to Florin, tomorrow had other plans for him.

* * *

It was a council of war; van Delft had no doubt about that. Nor did he have
any doubt about who the enemy was.

It was chaos.

Not the horrible twisting madness from the far north, thank Sigmar. But,
left unchecked this kind of chaos could be just as lethal.

Already two men had gone missing. They had slipped away in the middle of the
night, taking nothing but a pick and hessian sack, as far as their comrades
could make out.