Warhammer [Ignorant Armies] (15 page)

It was not easy to reach the body, and the elder Carriere had to call upon the assistance of his neighbours to hack a way through to it. Philippe was one of those who helped with this dire work, and thus was able to see the corpse of his friend before it was taken - with great difficulty - from the bush.

It was plain that Armand had fallen into the bush from a height, and the only sensible hypothesis which could be offered in explanation was that he had undone the shutters of his window during the hours of darkness, climbed up on to the sill, and launched himself from it in a prodigious leap, which had delivered him inevitably to his fate.

The thorns had punctured him in very many places, hard-driven by the force of his fell, and when they had finally pulled him free of the bush they saw that there was hardly an inch of his flesh unmolested.

It was as though he had been ripped and rent by many wicked claws.

When the company returned to the Carriere house Philippe told them all about the dreams which Armand had suffered, and about their visit to Gaspard Gruiller's strange garden.

Because it was the first time he had told the story it was far more confused in the telling than the version which you have just heard, but it would probably have made no difference if every detail had been in its proper place, for these were townsmen and tradespeople, and though they bolted their doors most carefully at night, they were inclined to believe that whatever the dark might hide was no concern of theirs. Nightmares, they agreed, were a sign of madness and folly, and if any more proof were needed that poor Armand had been utterly deranged, one only had to look at the peculiar books which he had chosen to read.

As for Gaspard Gruiller, the elder Carriere and all his friends were unanimous in declaring him a good neighbour. If the plants in his garden captured and devoured birds, that was certainly peculiar, but Parravon had no shortage of birds, and the great majority were a nuisance to other gardeners, so Gruiller's activities must be counted to the public good.

And if any further proof were needed that the gardener was worthy to live among honest tradespeople, there was the universally acknowledged fact that he was a man with no significant debts.

THE STAR BOAT

by Steve Baxter

"You're drinking alone?" The stranger's voice rasped against the friendly hubbub of the tavern.

Erik lowered his tankard and thought it over. Between campaigns, Erik - the one they called Erik the Were - always drank alone. Everyone knew that.

So who was this? He had made enough enemies on his many campaigns. Had one found him now?

The weight of his battle-hardened axe pressed against his thigh. He turned slowly, wiping froth from his moustache.

A rich purple cloak swaddled the stranger. No face could be seen in the hood's shadows. The stranger stood utterly still, like a lizard.

"Yes, I drink alone," Erik growled.

"Then let me buy you another." The stranger reached out a gloved arm.

Erik wrapped the thin wrist in one hand. The stranger spat like a snake and snatched back his arm. Beneath its covering the flesh had been cold.

"I mean no offence." Trembling, the stranger sat on a precarious stool opposite Erik. He had no drink and he kept his hood over his head. "I know of you," he hissed, breathing hard. "You are Erik. A mercenary. A fighter whose fame passes far beyond your forsaken Norsca." Erik caught a glimpse of yellow eyes deep inside the hood. "You have just returned from Araby?"

"Yah. So?"

The stranger shrugged. He indicated the rest of the tavern, half-armoured Norsemen waving money at serving women. "I can see it was a rewarding trip," the stranger said drily. "But you're not a man to throw money around, are you?"

Erik remembered Araby...

The sunlight stamped down on fire-hot sand, scalding the blond bodies of the Norsemen. He stood ready with the ulfwerenar, the wolf-kin. The werewolf warriors howled their discomfort.

The metal of his sword burnt his hand. He closed with Arabs whose breath stank of spices and who fought with knives clutched in long teeth; a growl built deep in his throat and he felt his lips stretch around a thrusting jaw; a red mist covered the sun and his teeth sank into dark flesh -

Erik the Were.

His breath rattled in his throat. The stranger was watching him. He forced himself to relax, to loose his grip on his tankard.

"I risk my life for my pay. Why throw it at some fat barman?"

"Very admirable."

Raucous singing drifted through the crowd.

"Ah." The stranger cocked his head. "I'm no expert on your aboriginal music, but I can make out the sentiments. Companionship, the bond of death." Again the shadowed head swivelled at Erik. "And where are your companions, Erik?"

Erik worked his hand around his tankard. "I choose my own company," he growled.

"Really?" The stranger leaned closer; his sibilant hiss turned to a whisper. "You see, I know why they call you the Were. You have a trace of the ulfwerenar in your veins, but your blood is not pure. You are both wolf and man... but you are neither wolf nor man. Are you?"

"So?"

"I've seen your type before. The wolf in you makes you a formidable warrior... the little you dare release. But you are a warrior wary of himself. Eh, Erik? And none of your comrades in arms, human or Were, see you as one of your own. Do they, man-were? How many of them will drink with you now? Is your wolf blood a gift or a curse, Erik?"

Erik slammed one fist on the tabletop. Heads turned. When they met his glare they turned away.

"What do you want?"

"My name is Cotza." The stranger stood. "I travelled here to find you. I have an assignment for you. A challenge for the great and courageous Erik the Were. A journey to the northern wastes; a search for ancient treasure... I have a room in the tavern called the Dragon's Tooth. Come at dawn." Cotza reached into a deep pocket and threw a handful of coins onto the table. "Here," he said. "Until then, drink and forget your loneliness, man-were." And he turned and strode out of the tavern, his gait awkward and rolling.

With a snarl of disgust Erik brushed the coins onto the floor.

A little before dawn Erik settled his account and left the tavern. His breath frosting over his beard, he walked through Ragnar's deserted streets. At the edge of the little town he climbed a small rise.

Pine-clad mountains swept down from behind Erik and pushed ridged fingers into the sea. The stars began to die; frost glistened. The lights of Ragnar and a dozen other small towns glittered in the fjords.

Mist covered the sea, and the mournful sound of a longboat's dragon horn floated out of the fog. Grumbling voices drifted up to him out of Ragnar. The house of the Husthing - the town council - shouldered its way above the mass of squat buildings, its bell tolling the hour.

It was all very ordinary, human, comforting. Erik shivered and turned away, and looked to the north. Darkness clung like smoke to the northern earth, oblivious to the dawn.

Far to the north lay the great waste. It was a land of night. That lingering dark was the banner of the Chaos Powers.

Something in him stirred. He touched the mat of fur that covered his upper cheek. The cloaked stranger's words had carried truth. Erik was a solitary man. Others could sense the seeds of Chaos in him, the traces of were-blood, even when the physical signs went unnoticed.

He remembered a child goaded day after day by his fellows - a child who wasn't like the others, a child who was thickset, hirsute...

That child had never dared to do what he longed to do, to howl and bark and bite into the throats of his tormentors. For what if the wolf refused to subside, what if the wolf overcame the little boy and trapped him somewhere inside?

Erik the Were. A child terrified of himself.

The stranger had seen into his most secret heart. Erik felt exposed, weakened; anger coursed through his thoughts. He pulled his cloak tighter around him and stalked back into town.

He rapped at the door of the Dragon's Tooth. The innkeeper was fat and bald. He grumbled as he led Erik up to Cotza's room.

Erik pushed open the door. There was no bed in the room. A large iron bath held water that steamed in the draught from the door. A massive trunk stood open in one corner. On a table a plate was stacked with damp greenery. It looked like seaweed. The dish was garnished with the mashed-up remains of insects.

Cotza stood motionless in the centre of the room, facing Erik. He still wore his purple cloak.

"What are you, Cotza?"

Cotza nodded, the hood's shadow falling over his chest. "I expected you..."

"No more games." Erik strode towards him.

Cotza raised thin arms. Erik brushed them aside and grabbed handfuls of cloak. The material was rich and thick, but it parted easily.

Cotza cried out. It sounded like a child weeping. The remnants of the cloak fell away, and Erik stood back and stared.

Cotza resembled a toad stretched upright to stand like a man. His face was mottled, his mouth wide; a white throat bulged. Eyelids like plates slid across yellow eyes. He wore a suit of something like rubber; fine pipes embedded in the suit were wrapped around Cotza's limbs and torso. From one pipe water was leaking. Blue feathers protruded from the neck of the suit, and china-blue tattoos covered webbed hands.

The great mouth opened and a forked tongue flickered. "You are satisfied, strong man?"

"You're a Slann." Erik felt numb, unable to react.

Cotza bent to pick up his torn cloak; Erik saw how his legs hinged outwards like a frog's. "Obviously I'm a Slann. But not just a Slann." He stroked the feathers around his neck. "I was once an Eagle Warrior. High rank, too." He waved Erik to a chair and walked awkwardly to the door, pushed it shut. As he moved Erik saw how the rubber suit showered his face and neck with water.

Erik sat. "But Slann never leave Lustria."

"Of course not! How bright you are this morning." The Slann limped to the table and picked up the plate of food. He waved it at Erik. "Breakfast?"

Erik eyed the insects. "No."

The Slann's tongue wrapped like a fist around particles of food. Cotza kept talking as he ate, the words coming from the back of his mouth. "There's no such word as 'never', my friend. But it is true that the Slann hardly ever travel. It's such a fuss." He waved a webbed thumb at the bath, the rubber suit. "You may know we're amphibians."

The word meant nothing to Erik.

"I need to be warm and wet," said Cotza impatiently. "Your damn country is cold and dry. So I have to carry my own warmth and wetness." The tongue flicked at the insects. "And you've no idea how hard it is for me to get decent service in these taverns."

"What do you want from me, Cotza?"

"Ah. The man of action. Straight to the point, eh? What do you know of the Slann?"

Erik shrugged. "What I need to know."

"Which is how to kill them with the least effort, I imagine." The Slann pushed aside his plate and patted delicately at his lips. "Erik, let me tell you about the Slann. We are the world's oldest race. Some legends say we built the world, and others besides. We travelled between our worlds in great ships - like longboats among the stars. Do you understand?"

"I understand you're telling me children's stories."

Cotza rolled huge yellow eyes. "Try to let me penetrate your ignorance, Norseman. Our star boats travelled by passing through Warp Gates. There was a Warp Gate on this world, far to the north of Norsca. But on the other side of the Warp Gates was a strange ocean, an ocean ridden with Chaos. The boats sailed this sea to the stars, you see, and Chaos - ah - filled their sails. One day the ocean broke from our control. Contact with other worlds was lost. The Gates became centres of instability and horror. We Slann retreated to Lustria, and degenerated into the barbarism we endure today."

Erik removed his horned cap, loosened his furs in the steam-laden air. "How do you know this?"

"Legends. The Slann have tales of the past, garbled of course, and so do the Elves." Cotza's frog face split into a wide grin. Legs bent, throat working, he looked more toad-like than ever. "There are many legends, and they fit together, like the pieces of a shattered plate. Do you understand?"

"Far to the north of here, across the Sea of Darkness, lies the lost Warp Gate. It is the centre of a region so damaged that no material thing can survive, and around that in turn lie the Chaos Wastes."

"Now. We will have to penetrate the fringes of the Wastes, travel to places no mortal has seen in hundreds of years - "

Erik reached out and grabbed one skinny shoulder. "Slow down, Slann. What are you talking about?"

The Slann hissed, nodding. "My apologies. I will explain. Please." Erik relaxed his grip; Cotza rubbed his flesh. "Why venture to such a place? I will tell you. The Elves have a story..."

They were the great days of the Slann. The Warp Gate was an arch ten miles high, constructed of the finest obsidian. It loomed over the frozen pole of the world and turned with the planet.

It was the heart of a glittering city. There were stars inside the Gate. Slann traders passed through the Gate in their star boats to a million worlds; a hundred races mingled in the Gateway city.

One day fire billowed out of the Gate. Death and destruction rained over the Gateway city. Cubic miles of ice turned to slush.

Now a landing craft came lurching out of the Gate. Damaged in some unknowable accident, it trailed fire. It flew hundreds of miles before ploughing into the ground.

There were no survivors. The Slann cordoned off the area. The wrecked star boat sank hissing into melted ice.

Slowly the ice froze over. The city was rebuilt. Gradually, over centuries, the incident was forgotten...

Erik thought it over. He'd travelled in longboat convoys to the New World often enough to pick up a little navigator's lore. Yes, the world was round. And it turned like a top around a spindle somewhere to the north. But - other worlds? Star boats?