Blighted Empire

Chapter V

Altdorf

Sommerzeit, 1114

The uproar within the council chamber was almost deafening. From his position at the head of the table, Adolf Kreyssig was afforded a good look at the bedlam. For all their outrage, he knew the fury of the councillors was all bluster. The presence of thirty armed Kaiserjaeger would make the nobles remember their place.

Lord Ratimir rose from his seat, smashing his lead drinking goblet on the table, trying to force some measure of order. ‘The Protector has spoken!’ he shouted, punctuating each word with a blow against the table. ‘He has made an Imperial diktat! His word is law!’

Count Holgwer von Haag shook his fist at Ratimir, then spun around to gesticulate at Kreyssig himself. ‘The Emperor will hear of this, you jumped up peasant scum! You have no right to-’

Kreyssig picked up the crystal ewer of wine resting before him and with a violent heave dashed it against the top of the table. Shards of glass exploded among the councillors, causing even the grizzled Duke Vidor to flinch back in alarm. A tense silence descended on the council chamber.

‘I have every right,’ Kreyssig growled at von Haag. He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, indicating the empty Imperial throne standing upon its marble dais. ‘You were there, all of you, when His Imperial Majesty appointed me Protector of the Empire. Have you asked yourself why he chose me, not a count or a baron or a duke?’ He let the question linger, watching little flickers of anxiety play across the faces of his audience. It didn’t take an enchanter to know that these blue-bloods had been asking themselves that question every hour of every day since the ceremony at the Great Cathedral of Sigmar.

Kreyssig extended his hand, directing an accusing finger at the men seated around the table. ‘His Imperial Majesty chose me because he feels he cannot trust you nobles. The Prince of Altdorf was the ringleader of the conspiracy to depose him. The noble representatives of Stirland and Westerland and Drakwald were party to that treachery. The Graf of Middenheim bestowed his endorsement and support. The noble-born Reiksmarshal turned three-quarters of the Imperial army to treason and brigandry!’ Kreyssig’s lip curled back in a vicious sneer. ‘No, I think the Emperor will sanction my decision to reconstitute this council with men of my choosing.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘You are welcome to protest, but know that I will take any such move as seditious and the instigators of such action will be investigated. Do you feel your loyalty is equal to such scrutiny?’

‘Mine is,’ growled Duke Vidor. He wore the black and gold of the Imperial army’s highest echelon, a green griffon rampant embroidered across the breast and a jewelled pectoral hanging from his neck. Except for the Imperial signet, Vidor already bore the paraphernalia of Reiksmarshal. Kreyssig knew how keenly the nobleman desired to wear the signet on his finger.

Kreyssig also knew that there was no man he could less afford to place in that position. Duke Vidor was of the old families, the old blood, boasting a pedigree that went clear back to the age of Sigmar. He was an embodiment of the aristocratic mentality, the arrogance of class and breeding that regarded those of commoner origins as less than animals. No amount of accomplishment or ability could ever overcome the failing of parentage in the eyes of men like Vidor.

There was no warmth in the smile Kreyssig directed at the Duke. ‘Your loyalty is beyond question?’ he asked, his words dripping with mockery.

‘I pursued that traitor Boeckenfoerde across four provinces and routed his rabble into the Ungol wastes!’ Vidor roared.

Like a spider drawing in its web, Kreyssig seized his prey. ‘Your orders were to bring the traitor’s head back and set it at the foot of Our Glorious Emperor’s throne!’ Savagely, Kreyssig threw back his chair and sent it crashing to the floor. A few steps brought him to the base of the marble dais. His hand pointing at the three steps beneath the Imperial seat, he turned and glared at Vidor. ‘Where is Boeckenfoerde’s head?’

Duke Vidor glared back at Kreyssig. ‘Oh no… You’ll not bait me! I did all that was reasonable, chased the cur beyond our borders…’

‘Beyond the reach of Imperial justice,’ Kreyssig snarled back. ‘Some affectation of noblesse oblige, taking it upon yourself to give Boeckenfoerde the choice of exile over execution?’

Vidor was on his feet now, hands clenched at his sides. ‘You peasant dog! You dare accuse me!’

‘I have been appointed Protector of the Empire,’ Kreyssig replied, a menacing calm in his voice. ‘It is my duty to accuse those whose service to the Emperor has been… questionable.’ He stalked back to the table, waiting while two of his Kaiserjaeger righted the upset chair. Seating himself again, Kreyssig glanced around the table, then fixed his gaze on Vidor. ‘Your services will not be required,’ he told the nobleman. ‘I will be appointing Astrid Soehnlein as new Reiksmarshal. If you do not wish to take orders from a peasant, I suggest you retire to your estates. While you still have them.’

Duke Vidor glowered at Kreyssig, his hands closing into fists, his teeth grinding as he clenched his jaw. Without a word, he tore the pectoral from his neck and dropped it on the table.

Kreyssig watched the fuming noble depart. As the door closed behind Vidor, he turned his cold gaze back upon the other councillors. ‘I trust the rest of you who are being relieved of your duties will accept my decision with the grace befitting your station.’

The reptilian smile flashed over the Protector’s face. ‘Otherwise people might develop strange ideas about your loyalty to Emperor Boris.’

Ragged, emaciated, unkempt and unwashed, the denizens of Albrecht’s Close emerged from their hovels, drawn from behind locked doors by the commotion in the street. Many had taken refuge in their half-timber homes and earthen grubenhauser months ago, trying to hide from the plague running rampant through the city. As they stirred from their seclusion and hobbled out into the street, they shaded their eyes against the sting of sunlight and coughed at the forgotten sensation of open air.

The plague had wrought havoc in Albrecht’s Close, once the domain of prosperous merchants and their peasant tenants. Many of the buildings were derelict, the white cross of disease daubed upon their doors. Many others had been allowed to fall into horrendous disrepair, their inhabitants not daring to summon craftsmen to effect repairs lest they bring the plague into their homes. One arm of the close was a blackened ruin, the residue of a winter fire that had consumed a dozen homes before its wrath was spent.

It was towards this swathe of charred timbers and soot-stained rock that the ragged crowd was drawn. Gaunt with hunger, feverish with fear, finery reduced to the rags of poverty, they were a typical sampling of what pernicious disease and malignant taxation had done to the common folk of Altdorf. They were a people who felt abandoned by gods and Emperor, cast into the unforgiving darkness of Old Night itself.

They were a people desperate to seize upon any hope. And for their sins, hope had descended upon the inhabitants of Albrecht’s Close.

He marched down the street, his powerful build swathed in a cloak of black, a heavy hood framing his sharp, birdlike face. About his neck hung an ornament of shining gold, the icon of a clenched fist. In one hand he bore a heavy book bound in leopard skin and banded in steel. In the other hand, raised high that its light might shine into the shadows of footpath and alleyway, he held a blazing torch. In a stern, booming voice, he compelled the people of the close to stir.

‘Altdorfers!’ the black spectre shouted. ‘The judgement of the gods is upon you! Too long have you wallowed in the sins of wantonness and luxury. Too long have you forsaken the virtue of humility, forgotten your obligations to the divine court! The weight of your inequities has visited pestilence and famine on this city. The gods have turned their faces from you. They have become deaf to shallow prayers issuing from shallow hearts. You beg their grace, but you do so without faith. Without conviction!’

The orator stopped, turning to stare accusingly at the throng filing into the street. He shook the torch, sending embers dancing into the shadows. He brandished the book, letting its pages rustle. ‘You implore the gods for solace, ask them to spare your petty lives. Yet you do not spare a thought for the quality of your souls! When the gods remain silent, you lend yourselves to confusion and blasphemy. You seek succour from those who do not believe in the authority of the gods. You despair and would give yourselves over into the deceit of those who cavort with the Ruinous Powers!’

On uttering his last condemnation of the crowd, the speaker turned, shaking his torch at a miserable-looking woman bound in chains and being dragged through the street by a pair of shaven-headed acolytes in the brown robes of flagellants. ‘This creature sought to lead you down the path of damnation. Sought to trap you in her profane lies. To cure your flesh by defiling your soul!’

‘You have chained Mutti Angela,’ a horrified onlooker exclaimed. ‘She is a healer…’

‘She is a pawn of daemons!’ the black spectre roared, his booming voice drowning out the peasant’s protest. ‘She is a corruption polluting the virtue of this community, a poisonous viper spitting her venom into the hearts of all she touches.’ He waved the torch overhead, letting embers shower down onto his hood, drawing the attention of the crowd away from the man who had spoken for Mutti Angela.

‘I am called Auernheimer,’ he declared. ‘I serve the great god Solkan, the divine fist of retribution. I am a witch-taker.’ He looked back at the chained woman. ‘This creature, this abomination that professes to protect you against the plague, is a witch.’

The statement brought gasps of alarm from the crowd. Several voices rose in objection, incredulous cries against Auernheimer’s claims.

‘Your deception is so great that even now you cling to this creature’s lies,’ the witch-taker declared. His fiery gaze swept across the crowd. ‘How long has this obscenity practised her witchery among you? Has it stopped the plague? Has it saved any of you? No! There is only one way to salvation. Submit to the authority of the gods. Bow to the judgement of Great Solkan!’

Auernheimer paused, studying the crowd. Slowly, he lowered the holy book, hooking it to a ring on his belt. Reaching beneath his cloak, he withdrew a long iron needle. ‘Still you doubt, but I shall prove to you the veracity of my words!’ In a single vicious motion, he thrust the needle into his own cheek. Blood bubbled from the wound as he worried the needle back and forth. The peasants watched in morbid fascination as he pulled the needle free.

‘A man will bleed,’ Auernheimer declaimed, shaking the bloody needle. ‘Should I prick any one of you, you too would bleed. But a witch,’ he turned and strode towards the chained woman, ‘a witch has no blood in her veins, only the filth of Chaos!’

Before anyone knew what he was about, Auernheimer stabbed the needle into the woman’s arm. The captive cried out in fright and pain, but her scream was drowned out by the horrified shrieks of the crowd. Where the needle had drawn blood from the witch-taker, the substance bubbling from the woman’s wound was a stinking brown sludge.

‘Witch!’ a horrified peasant exclaimed. The cry was soon taken up by others. Soon the shout was taken up by the entire crowd.

Auernheimer withdrew the needle, wiping it clean on his cloak before returning it to his pocket. ‘Purge the corruption of the witch!’ he roared. ‘Cleanse its blight from your community! Purify this fleshy vestment of evil!’ He waved his torch overhead once more, sending embers dancing through the street.

‘Cast out the daughters of Chaos by burning them!’

The witch-taker’s invective aroused the terrified mob. Peasants rushed upon the nearest of the derelict structures, ripping out shutters and pulling down doors. Furniture was smashed and broken, shingles wrenched from the edges of overhangs. Soon, a great mound of wood was growing amid the burned-out ruins. When it had risen high enough, the accused witch was thrust forwards, sent crashing into the pile.

Auernheimer waved his torch overhead one last time before sending the brand flying from his hand to sail into the piled wood. The debris quickly caught flame. Angela shrieked, scrambling to escape the fire. As she tried to crawl away from the pile, peasants thrust her back with pitchforks and spades. The woman’s efforts became more frantic as the fire kissed her flesh, but the more horrendous her injuries, the more determined the peasants were to keep her from escaping the conflagration.

When Angela’s strength failed and she at last collapsed amid the flames, Auernheimer unhooked the tome from his belt and led the peasants in a solemn psalm praising the grim beneficence of Solkan, Father of Vengeance.

For their sins, the people of Albrecht’s Close rallied to a new and terrible redeemer.

Middenheim,

Sommerzeit, 1118

Ar-Ulric cast an appraising eye over Brother Richter as the priest seated himself at the right hand of Prince Mandred. The High Priest of Ulric teased his snowy moustache with a wrinkled hand as he walked around the Fauschlagstein, the great stone council table carved from a single block of mountain granite, and took his seat near that of Graf Gunthar. Even when he was seated, the old cleric couldn’t keep his eyes from straying towards the Sigmarite or an amused expression from tugging at his face.

Mandred found Ar-Ulric’s demeanour puzzling and consequently annoying. The priest was getting on in his years, far older than any wolf-priest before him. Age had lent him a taciturnity that made a dwarf seem chipper by comparison.

Thoughts of dwarfs made him look over at Thane Hardin Gunarsson, chief of Middenheim’s dwarf population. More properly, the dwarfs lived beneath the city, deep inside the Ulricsberg — the mountain they called Grungni’s Tower — itself. The halls of Karak Grazhyakh ran through the whole of the mountain and, it was said, its mines delved deep into the bedrock below. Thane Hardin was a stoic, studious representative for his people, speaking rarely and then only with cautious deliberation.

Others gathered about the table represented the noble families of Middenheim, such as Duke Schneidereit and Margraf von Ulmann. The graf’s chamberlain, the pessimistic Viscount von Vogelthal, was also in attendance, wearing his usual cynical scowl. Grand Master Vitholf of the White Wolves, successor of Grand Master Arno, sat beside the chamberlain, trying to ignore Mandred’s presence. The knight blamed Mandred for Arno’s death, a grudge that hurt the prince all the more because he himself felt it to be justified.

All those seated around the Fauschlagstein stood as Graf Gunthar entered the room, dressed in the rich blue raiment he always affected at such meetings. The graf nodded respectfully to Lady Mirella and Brother Richter, then circled around to the wolf-armed seat at the head of the table. As he lowered himself into the high-backed chair, his councillors resumed their seats.

For the better part of an hour, the graf and his council listened attentively as Mirella and Richter described the situation in the south, the political climate in Altdorf and the status of the Imperial court. Rumours of much that they had to relate had reached Middenheim already, carried by the trickle of refugees who managed the dangerous journey, but to have the facts related to them by persons who had actually been there was accorded far greater import. Graf Gunthar was particularly struck by the theft of Ghal Maraz, the Hammer of Sigmar and one of the holy regalia that lent the Emperor the authority to rule.

‘Stolen by a young knight?’ the graf marvelled. ‘Right from under the nose of old Boris!’

‘Prince Sigdan’s intention, I believe, was to bring the hammer here, your highness,’ Lady Mirella said. ‘Baron Thornig was to conduct the thief, a captain of the Reiksknecht, to your court. Sadly, the baron was killed by the Kaiserjaeger.’

‘And this captain? You say that he escaped?’ Graf Gunthar asked.

‘He did, your highness,’ Brother Richter stated. ‘Adolf Kreyssig, the so-called Protector of the Empire, has posted a three thousand crown bounty on the head of Erich von Kranzbeuhler.’

The amount of the reward brought appreciative whistles from some of the councillors. Viscount von Vogelthal turned towards the graf. ‘With such a large bounty, it is obvious this von Kranzbeuhler still has the hammer.’ The chamberlain frowned and shook his head. ‘Or at least Kreyssig thinks he does. Just because he didn’t reach Middenheim is no reason to think he might not have sought asylum in the court of another count.’

Brother Richter shook his head. ‘He didn’t,’ he declared.

‘You seem rather certain of that,’ Mandred observed.

‘I am,’ Richter agreed. ‘Because not six months ago I encountered von Kranzbeuhler in a small village south of the Reikwald.’

‘Quite a risk, merely to consult a simple friar,’ Ar-Ulric commented, a knowing gleam in his eye. He smiled when Richter gave him a worried look.

‘Did he still have Ghal Maraz?’ Grand Master Vitholf wondered.

The priest nodded. ‘You see, I didn’t seek him out. He sought me. He wanted my advice on what to do, where to take the hammer.’

‘What did you tell him?’ Graf Gunthar asked, leaning forwards in his chair, his face anxious.

‘I told him to hide it,’ Brother Richter said. ‘I told him to keep it safe. That Sigmar would reveal to him when the time was right for Ghal Maraz to return.’

‘Outrageous!’ exclaimed Duke Schneidereit. ‘If you had access to the hammer, why not keep to the plan and bring it here? This entire story is preposterous!’

Graf Gunthar fixed Brother Richter with his gaze. ‘You understand that with Ghal Maraz I could have made a claim upon the throne? I could have cast this peasant tyrant from the Imperial Palace. I could have restored order to the Empire.’ His voice became a bitter growl. ‘But a Sigmarite wouldn’t stomach an Ulrican on the throne.’

Thane Hardin snorted derisively at the graf’s statement. From anyone else on the council, Gunthar would have taken it as a grave insult. Instead, he turned to hear what the dwarf had to say.

‘You really think holding Ghal Maraz would make all the other kings bow to you?’ Thane Hardin scoffed. ‘All you’d get would be a bunch of scoundrels yapping for your blood and calling you a thief. Few men have the honour to set aside their own interests to do what’s right. Even fewer when they wear crowns and titles. To be blunt,’ he added, as though his speech had been restrained, ‘I’m amazed your Empire has held together as long as it has.’

‘Thane Hardin makes a good observation,’ Margraf von Ulmann said. ‘There are many who would refuse to acknowledge any claim on the throne. With the example of Boris Goldgather, they might justifiably fear the domination of another tyrant of his ilk. Then there are men like this peasant Kreyssig, who won’t relinquish power unless it is pried from his dead fingers.’

‘Men must wallow in the depths of darkness before they will strive towards the light,’ Ar-Ulric said, quoting an ancient Teutogen parable. The wolf-priest’s wrinkled hands slowly came together, fingers entwined. ‘The strength of the pack is tenfold against the lone wolf,’ he told the other councillors. ‘But until that strength is needed, how much will the lone wolf struggle to keep his freedom?’

Graf Gunthar sat back, sober contemplation knotting his brow. ‘That is why you hid the hammer?’ he asked Brother Richter.

‘It is, your highness,’ the Sigmarite answered. ‘By itself, Ghal Maraz cannot bring unity. What it can do is bring legitimacy to that unity.’ He swept his gaze across the council. ‘The Empire is beset on all sides. The Northmen have razed Westerland and are encamped in the rubble of Marienburg. Drakwald is a depopulated shambles. This you know, but things are even more dire in the south. Sylvania is in the grip of the walking dead, stirred from their graves by a terrible necromancer. Averland is beset by orcs from the south. The city of Pfeildorf…’

Richter hesitated, wondering if he dared continue, if any about the table would believe him if he related the fate of Solland’s capital, a fate that had also descended upon Wissenburg and nearly claimed Altdorf itself. Would they believe him if he said the Underfolk had scurried straight from the pages of legend to become loathsome, hideous reality? Would he have believed it himself had Kranzbeuhler not shown him the severed paw of one of the monsters?

‘Pfeildorf has been lost to inhuman creatures,’ the priest stated. ‘Beastkin of the most abominable cast in numbers such as even the Drakwald has never seen. Entire villages and towns have been enslaved by the fiends, forced to toil for their monstrous masters.’

Mandred gave a start as he heard Richter speak. He was thinking of that ratty beastman in the Kineater’s herd, of the similar creature he had thrown from the walls of Middenheim years ago. A shiver passed through him, those old legends scratching at his mind. He started to speak, but decided better of it. He didn’t want to look foolish before his father and the council.

Beastmen came in all shapes and sizes. The ratmen had been nothing but especially degenerate examples.

After all, everyone knew there was no such thing as the Underfolk.

Far below the halls of the Middenpalaz and the streets of Middenheim, the subterranean darkness echoed with the crack of pick and hammer. The low grumble of an old miner’s chant whispered down rocky tunnels, catching in fissures and crevices to become a chorus of echoes. The glow of candles and coal-lamps cast a flickering island of light amid the black pits of Grungni’s Tower.

The dwarfs smelt of beer and sweat, leather and steel. The reek of the goat fat used to starch their beards was especially pungent, an odour that announced their presence even more loudly than the glow of their candles and the stink of their lamps. Under concealment of the Khazalid work song and the din of tools, dark shapes crept furtively through the tunnels.

Intent upon the little ribbon of gold they had pursued through the mountain for decades, the dwarfs were oblivious to the foe that stalked them through the tunnels. The vein had been entrusted to their clan by the powerful Engineer’s Guild, becoming not simply a source of wealth to them but a matter of pride and honour as well. The work itself was as important as the rewards to be reaped from the golden nuggets they chipped from the walls. A dwarf who didn’t put himself fully into his work wasn’t fit to wear his beard.

Such was the devoted concentration they put into their labour that the miners didn’t notice when one of the picks fell silent. They didn’t hear the soft gasp as a sharp dagger was thrust through dwarfish back to pierce dwarfish lung. They didn’t notice the change in their song as one of its voices was silenced. They didn’t see the shape cloaked in black that carefully lowered a limp corpse to the floor of the shaft.

One by one, the miners were dispatched. Sinister shapes stole upon them from the shadows, striking in deathly silence with the expertise of accomplished killers.

It was the rats that finally alerted the miners to their danger. The vermin were a constant presence in the shafts, an annoyance that the dwarfs endured for the pragmatic fact that the rodents had an eerie ability to sense vibrations in the rock. Even before a dwarf’s keen senses could warn him of a cave-in, the rats would be scurrying for safety. An experienced miner would even encourage a few rats to linger in any shaft he was working with scraps of food. Always he would keep half an eye on the animals, wary of any change in their habits.

A grizzled old dwarf rested his pick on his shoulder as he noticed the rats on the floor near where he was working. He’d never seen the creatures so agitated before. It wasn’t the mad scramble for safety a collapse would cause. No, the creatures were crawling about, low to the floor, looking for all the world like whipped dogs. Sometimes they would lift their heads and sniff at the air, only to chirp a frightened little squeak.

The old miner raised his gaze from the floor, and his eyes grew wide with alarm as he saw one of the candles further down the shaft snuffed out. The entire length of the tunnel behind him was in darkness, though he knew there should be half a dozen dwarfs between himself and the main shaft. Grimly, he shifted the pick from his shoulder, hands closing about it as they would around the grip of a battleaxe.

Before he could move, a mass of darkness swept towards the miner. His eyes picked out the hunched figure, the lean body of a bestial shape draped in the folds of a long black cloak. He saw beady red eyes gleaming from a furry face, the long muzzle twisted in a toothy snarl. He saw the hand-like paw lick towards him, a crooked blade clenched in its fingers. For an instant, he felt the sizzle of the poisonous blade as it slashed his throat.

The dwarf’s killer caught his body before it could collapse to the floor. Carefully, the assassin lowered the corpse to the ground, scattering the frightened rats. The murderer stared down at the ghastly slash he had inflicted, watching as the traces of warpstone from his dagger continued to burn and bubble at the edges of the wound.

Then the skaven reared back, turning his eyes away from the miner. In a single hop, he was at the little niche the dwarf had been working. The assassin’s paw flashed over the candle yet burning there, snuffing it out. As darkness enveloped the ratman once more, he cast his gaze further down the shaft, where the sounds and smells of dwarf yet prevailed.

Deathmaster Silke twitched his whiskers in amusement.

There was nothing quite like killing helpless prey to make a skaven feel pleased with himself.