The Heart of Chaos (Slaves to Darkness Book 3) by Gav Thorpe

Author:Gav Thorpe [Thorpe, Gav]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2011-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWO

The Gathering

Northern Steppes, Summer 1712

The broth was thick and hot, and Jakob wolfed it down hungrily, the bowl balanced awkwardly on his lap, a deep spoon in his good hand. Seated next to him, Vlamdir ate at a more sedate pace, the exposed muscles of his face expanding and contracting as he chewed. They were sitting on thick woollen rugs inside the tent of Asdubar Hunn, chieftain of the Mendhir, and the old warrior watched them with a mixture of fear and distaste. The walls of the tent, stitched-together elk skins, rippled as the north wind blew across the open steppes, howling outside.

Finishing his soup, Jakob laid his bowl to one side and looked at Asdubar, his golden eye glinting in the light from the small fire pit at the tent’s centre. Asdubar returned his gaze coolly. It was clear from their appearance that the pair was marked by the gods, and the chieftain had welcomed them to his tribe accordingly. His hospitality had been flawless, but he had the feeling that food and shelter were not the only things the two men were after.

Messengers had brought news of their coming to him from the Vangirs, and it had not been the first time he had heard their names mentioned. For months, since the beginning of summer, they had been travelling the steppes, moving from tribe to tribe. Some said that they brought the blessings of the gods with them. Others claimed they were raising an army. Some rumours even claimed that they were messengers from the north of the world. Asdubar had dismissed such claims, but now that he looked at them, the shaman’s fused hand and staff, the shifting metallic skin of his companion, the chieftain knew that the touch of the gods lay heavily upon them.

‘War is coming,’ said Jakob, his voice little more than a harsh whisper. ‘A great war, a war for the gods! We have come to you, so that the Mendhir might be counted amongst our numbers.’

‘War against whom?’ Asdubar asked, gesturing for one of his council, the stocky Gengris, to fetch the stoppered jugs of fermented milk that were stored in the corner of the tent. As the jug was passed around the circle of twelve men, each taking a deep gulp of the potent brew, Jakob’s normal eye remain fixed on the chieftain.

‘Does it matter?’ he asked. ‘The gods call, men answer. That is the only truth you should need to know.’

‘And yet I ask again, war against whom?’ said Asdubar. ‘I have heard of you. I have heard that you send men to the west, to the Pass of Kings high in the mountains. It is a long journey for us, and the summer is almost over. We should be preparing for the coming winter, not looking for war.’

‘In the south, the winters are less harsh,’ said Jakob, accepting the jug of spirits from Vlamdir, who sat silently beside him, his staring eyes looking at the others in the tent.

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