Back to the Tower
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1: Unfortunate Discoveries
Chapter 4: An Unexpected Arrival
Vladimir woke suddenly, gasping in the cold winter air, a dull ache in his bladder. He frowned. He should not have had that last cup of mead. The night was bitter cold and not a good time to have to use the chamber pot. He sighed, his breath misting momentarily before him, rubbed his eyes, and swung his legs over the side of his cot. His breath hissed in again as his feet touched the icy stones. He pulled them back up, almost losing his bladder right there. He touched them down once, twice, then three times before he was able to stand on the frigid floor. He hopped from foot to foot over to the pot, then forced himself to stand still while he relieved himself so as not to make a mess on the floor. He raced back to his bed and put his feet back under the covers, which still maintained some warmth.
He lay there under the blankets for what seemed a long time before admitting to himself that the cold had woken him up. He rolled up onto his elbow and grabbed the iron poker, which rested against the table. He prodded at the brazier by the bed, stirring up a few still-glowing embers. He tossed some more coal on the embers and breathed on them to get them started.
He wondered what time it was, and if it would even be worth the trouble to try to get back to sleep. The nearest clock was a hundred feet down the hall over the icy stones. The Novices had to be up long before the sun and work long after it was down at the Sigmarite monastery. He was an Initiate, and although his hours were not any shorter than the Novices, his tasks were far less grueling. He spent most of his days in the library scriptorium. He had learned to read and write early on, and was now translating some of the old texts. Father Ehrlich said that his hand was steady and his mind was sharp, the sign of a good librarian. Muttering to himself about the bitter Kislev winters Vladimir stood again and tramped over to the window. Judging by the howl of the wind across the decidedly inadequate shutters the winter storm was still blowing, but maybe he could get a glimpse of the moons. They were supposed to be full tonight, and their position would at least give him a general notion of what time it was.
He unlatched the shutters, but before he could open them the icy wind blew them wide, with a loud crack they hit the walls. Snow and sleet blew in after them, forcing Vladimir to turn his head and grope blindly for the shutters in order to close them. Over the fierce howl of the blizzard he could barely make out a low booming. It was not a sound made by the wind, but was rhythmic and evenly spaced. Like someone is knocking, his mind registered. His window looked out over the courtyard, the stables, and the gates. Who would be knocking at this hour? In this storm?
Vladimir forced his shutters closed and with great effort was able to latch them once again. He took a twig from the holder by the nightstand and thrust it into the burning coals of the brazier. When the twig glowed with the same fire as the coals he used it to light the oil lamp on the table. He slipped into his shoes and threw his blanket over his shoulders. With lamp in one hand and chamber pot in the other (he might as well empty it while he was about) Vladimir padded quietly across the hall and down the stairs.
He came out through the stables to avoid the worst of the biting winter gale. He could see by the dim lamplight that the snow was already two feet deep outside. The icy air muted even the familiar scent of horse manure and fresh hay. The horses shifted and whickered in their stalls, oblivious to the cold but disturbed by the sounds of the swirling wind. As he approached the courtyard he saw figures in heavy black cloaks emerge from the monastery's vestibule and in a huddled mass scurry over to the heavy wooden gates. None of them carried even a single source of light. One of the hunched over figures stood erect and began to bark orders at the others. The wind made it impossible to hear what was said, a silent drama in the swirling snow, but it blew the hood of the man's cloak off. It was Maximilien, High Theogonist of the Monastery at Erengrad.
Vladimir's mind reeled. What is Father Max doing out at this hour? Surely someone of lesser stature could open the gates in a storm in the middle of the night. And how did they know that someone would be here at such an inopportune time? A cold feeling that had nothing to do with the blizzard ran down his spine. He was not supposed to see this. No one was. He extinguished his lamp, intending to make his way as quickly and quietly as he possibly could back to his cell, and forget he ever saw anything. It was quite common for an initiate to be strapped or worse for poking his nose where it did not belong.
Two of the clerics lifted the large oaken beam that held the gate shut. The fierce winter gale threw the doors wide, knocking them to the ground. The other clerics rushed forward to help the two who were now pinned beneath the heavy beam. Just then a group of about twenty horsemen clad in Imperial armor galloped into the stableyard. Their leader dismounted and approached Maximilien. The knights seemed uneasy in their saddles, some looking over their shoulders as if the swirling snow and darkness itself would attack and consume them. Their mounts echoed their black mood, pawing the ground and prancing around nervously.
Their captain was gesticulating wildly in his bulky metal armor and shouting to be heard over the storm. Maximilien put his hands up in a placating manner, obviously trying to calm the warrior. At a gesture from their captain the knights brought forth a packhorse laden with a large iron chest. They hurled the reins into the hands of one of the waiting clerics. Before any more words could be exchanged they remounted and galloped out of the monastery, completely disregarding the horse they had abandoned, and leaving the priests alone in the swirling snow.
At Maximilien's orders the clerics strained against the winter wind to swing closed the gates, and replaced the beam to hold them shut. Then they began to lead the packhorse toward the stable where Vladimir stood, watching. He knew he should go back to his room, but he was intrigued by what had happened and could not make himself leave. Instead he faded into the dark recesses of one of the stalls and made himself as small as possible.
Presently the priests led the horse into the stable and set about removing its burden. The chest looked heavy, cast entirely of iron and bound over and over with thick iron chains. It required four stout Brothers to lift it down from the tired steed's back. The horses in the stable became even more agitated by the night's activities. They stomped rolled their eyes. Father Max frequently urged the clerics to be careful. Even in the stable, somewhat sheltered from the whistling wind, he hissed his commands in a harsh whisper. Vladimir couldn't make out most of what was said over the storm and the chattering of his own teeth, but he did hear two words. Talisman. Slaanesh.
At that unmentionable name Vladimir gave an unintentional start, kicking the chamber pot over and spilling its contents onto the floor of the stall. He held his breath as the steaming liquid ran out into the vestibule, where Maximillien spied it. He hissed a curse and barked an order. Vladimir saw the stable get brighter as a torch was struck. The flickering light grew closer and he knew he was caught. Father Larsen, the Master of Novices, loomed around the corner of the stall. He caught sight of Vladimir and rushed forward. He grabbed the boy up by his ear and dragged him out into the open.
"Here, Father," he shouted in a whisper. "I have found our skulker."
Maximilien turned away from the chest and set his baleful gaze on Vladimir, who was kneeling at Father Larsen's side, trying to keep his ear from being torn from his head. The flickering torchlight cast ghoulish shadows over the High Theogonist's grim visage. He paused for a moment, examining the kneeling boy. Vladimir felt as if the man's eyes were burrowing into his very soul, taking inventory of all of his sins and indiscretions. With a slight frown Maximilien waved him off. Father Larsen hauled Vladimir to his feet and led him at a brusque pace out of the stable. Vladimir was dragged up the stairs, past the Initiate's Hall and toward Father Larsen's office. He groaned inwardly, that meant only one thing.
Vladimir was hurled to his hands and knees in front of Father Larsen's large wooden desk. He lifted his head long enough to see the burly cleric stride grimly to the back wall and snatch up the lash which hung prominently for all trembling Novices and Initiates to see. Larsen used to be a warrior priest in the Martial Order of Sigmar. It was whispered that he had fought against a Chaos horde, hand to hand with psychotic chaos warriors, foul beastmen, and even daemons from the warp. The years had added a decent paunch to him, but not an ounce of it was fat. Beneath his Sigmarite robes the man's muscles bunched like steel. Vladimir had only ever received five lashes from the muscular cleric, for falling asleep one day during morning devotions. He was not looking forward to any more.
Father Larsen normally delivered a rousing sermon about discipline and dedication before a good thrashing, but he was ominously silent as he gestured for Vladimir to remove his nightshirt. The blanket had been lost somewhere between the stable and the office. The brawny cleric was a master with his lash. He worked Vladimir over from his shoulders to his buttocks. No blow fell until the sting from the previous had almost faded. There was no rhythm, so there was no way to anticipate when the next stinging jolt would strike. Vladimir clenched his jaw to bite back wails and sobs, hot tears running down his nose, which was pressed firmly to the floor. He lost count after thirty lashes, but he guessed it to be near fifty when the hail of blows finally stopped. He struggled to bring his breathing under control. When next he lifted his head, his brown eyes wet and puffy from the tears, he saw Father Maximilien seated behind the desk, and Father Larsen standing behind him. Vladimir was not able to stifle his pitiful moan at that sight. As long as he could remember, Maximilien, High Theogonist of Erengrad Monastery had never deigned to participate in the discipline of an Initiate. It was beneath him. He was in grave trouble.
"Clean yourself up, boy," Father Larsen said curtly, tossing a rough cloth at his knees. He wiped his face, which was wet with enough tears and sweat to dampen his sandy blonde hair. He was painfully aware that aside from his shoes he was totally naked, but he made no move to don his nightshirt. Not until he was given leave. Instead he straightened his back, which burned like the sun, and attempted to mentally prepare himself for whatever was coming next. They sat like that for a very long time.
"You are Vladimir Kravczyk," Maximilien said at long last. It was not a question, but Vladimir nodded to confirm, his eyes widening. If someone had asked him yesterday if the High Theogonist of Erengrad Monastery even knew he existed, much less knew his name, Vladimir would have laughed. "How old are you, boy?"
"F-fifteen," he replied, his breath hitching in his throat. Maximilien nodded as if he had already known the answer. Vladimir was being tested, measured.
"And how long have you been with us?" Maximilien's voice was deep, calm, and even. He spoke with a voice that had delivered innumerable sermons, sung untold numbers of hymns, and given countless orders that were followed without question or hesitation. Vladimir felt strangely calmed by the cleric's voice, despite his dire situation.
"For as long as I can remember. I was brought here when I was very young. My parents were killed when I was a child, by…" he trailed off.
"They were killed by a band of marauders, from the Tribe of the Great Serpent. They crossed the Wastes and raided along the Kislevite border. Your village was destroyed, burned to the ground, its people slain to a man. You were the sole survivor. Imperial soldiers caught the marauders on their way back to the Wastes and destroyed them. They found you among the loot."
"Had it not been for Father Larsen here, you would have been slain on the spot, as one of their own," he continued, gesturing to the brawny priest. Larsen nodded, a far-away look in his eyes.
"You did not know this before today." Again, not a question.
"Why did they take me?" Vladimir asked.
"Only Sigmar knows for sure," Maximilien said, making the sign of Sigmar's hammer, a closed fist held across his chest. "Perhaps you were to be sacrificed to their cruel masters, or brought back as a slave for their tribe, or perhaps you were to be eaten. I put nothing beyond the perversions of that lot. But why is not important. What is important is that you understand that you owe a great debt, indeed your life, to this Order and to this man," he stated, indicating Father Larsen again.
"Your Eminence, I am extremely grateful to the Order for taking me in. I love the life I have here. I have dedicated my life to the service of Sigmar," Vladimir implored.
"Truly? Your actions tonight do not demonstrate this," Maximilien admonished. "You broke curfew, and you insidiously spied on the doings of your brothers. These are not the actions of one who seeks Sigmar's truth."
"I am deeply sorry, your Eminence. I beseech you for penance to absolve my wicked deed."
"Penance you shall have, my errant son, and more than you will like, to be sure. You will answer to Sigmar for your iniquities in good time, but for now you must answer to me." Vladimir felt sick, like there was a ball of hot lead in his stomach.
"Why were you about at such a late hour?"
"I was woken by the storm. I had to use the…the pot," Vladimir stammered, embarrassed to be discussing his bodily functions with the High Theogonist. Maximilien indicated that he should continue. "I heard a noise outside, and I needed to empty the pot anyway, it…really needed to be emptied"
"Yes, we are all painfully aware of the contents of your chamber pot. Did you intend to empty it in the stable?"
"No, your Eminence. I didn't want to go out in the storm, so I went through the stables."
"And what did you see?"
"Nothing, your Eminence. I was caught unawares by your…group. I didn't want to be caught out after curfew, so I hid."
"Don't lie to me, boy!" Maximilien growled. He loomed over the desk menacingly. "Tell me what you saw. Tell me what you heard. Tell me the truth or Father Larsen will flay you until you do!"
"I saw knights," Vladimir blurted out, panicked at the thought of another beating. I saw them give you something."
"What was that?"
"A chest."
"Did you hear us talking?"
"I didn't hear much, your Eminence. The wind was blowing fiercely."
"What did you hear?"
"I heard you say…say a name."
"What name?"
"I am loath to utter it, your Eminence. It is forbidden."
"It does not warrant repeating," Maximilien conceded. "What else did you hear?"
"Something about a talisman, your Eminence." Maximilien leaned back in his chair and for the first time took his eyes off of Vladimir. He steepled his fingers and tapped them to his lips, deep in thought.
"You are a bright boy, Vladimir Kravczyk. Brother Ehrlich has told me as much. So tell me, what is in that chest?"
"I don't know, your Eminence," Vladimir answered.
"I am losing patience, Vladimir," he growled again. "What do you suppose is in the chest?"
"Some sort of talisman of…of…of Chaos." The last was a mere whisper. Vladimir was trembling and broken out in a cold sweat. "Why did they bring it here, your Eminence?"
"It was brought here so its madness can no longer plague this world, so it can be destroyed. Such things are made with intricate and malevolent powers. Unmaking it will not be easy. But rest assured, my son, that with the might of Sigmar we will destroy the foul thing." Vladimir relaxed visibly at Maximilien's reassurances. He noticed that oddly enough, Father Larsen did too.
"I do not have to tell you what kind of panic would be unleashed if the presence of this talisman became widely known. It is of the utmost importance that the everyday operations of this monastery go undisturbed." Maximilien stood up and walked around the desk to tower over the still kneeling boy. He placed his gaunt hand on Vladimir's head.
"Do you swear, Vladimir Kravczyk, by the Hammer of Sigmar and by all that you hold dear, that you will never speak of this incident to another soul?"
"I so swear."
"Are you aware that, should you break this oath, you will bring the direst penalties not only upon your physical body but also upon your immortal soul?"
"I am aware." Maximilien removed his hand from Vladimir's head, and lifted his chin to make eye contact with him.
"For your sake I sincerely hope you are."
Back to the Tower