Dead Winter

Chapter XV

Altdorf

Vorhexen, 1111

In twos and threes, grim-faced men began to gather in the streets and alleyways bordering the Widows’ Plaza. They came with clubs and knives; hammers and axes; swords of every size, shape and condition; home-made spears and curved bows of Reikland elm wood. Muffled in fur cloaks and wool coats, the men braved the bite of a mid-afternoon snow flurry, using the falling snow to mask their approach and hide their numbers.

Meisel had drawn upon some three hundred survivors of Engel’s Bread March and to this core of experienced warriors he had added as many of Altdorf’s disaffected peasantry as he could muster. It was a considerable mob that moved against the Courts of Justice. Rumours that the popular Arch-Lector Hartwich had been executed on orders from Emperor Boris had found fertile soil among Altdorf’s suffering masses. Men who had silently endured all of the Emperor’s other diktats and abuses had found this last one insufferable. Now, it seemed, the Emperor was trying to extend his tyranny into the realm of the gods and that the commoners would not allow.

The watchmen high atop the Tower of Altdorf didn’t notice the approaching mob until packs of armed men emerged from the drifting snow and began marching into the Widows’ Plaza. At once they sounded the alarm bells, nocking arrows to bows. The officer in command of the archers hesitated, however, as the numbers of men in the square continued to increase. He didn’t want to make the decision to provoke the unrest further by shooting into the crowd. Precious minutes were lost as he awaited orders from his superiors to tell him what to do.

By then, the choice of drawing first blood was taken from the soldiers in the tower. Bowmen among the mob took aim and loosed arrows at the watchmen patrolling the walls of the Imperial Courthouse. Most of the soldiers had already taken shelter behind the battlements on the fortress walls, but their adversaries down in the square included men who had stalked the borders of the Laurelorn Forest and who had hunted through the wilds of the Drakwald, men who had honed their aim and their eye to a degree never imagined by the martial schools of Altdorf. A half-dozen soldiers were struck down by the precision shooting, many of them pitching into the fortress courtyard, as lifeless as the flagstones they smashed against.

When the command to loose arrows was finally given, the archers in the Tower of Altdorf found that their enemies were prepared for them. The mob hefted crude palisades crafted from doors and shutters, many of them bearing the chalk-mark warning against plague scrawled across their faces. The arrows slammed into these wooden panels, but were unable to pierce the men sheltering behind them. The vengeful marksmanship of hunters and targeteers sent a pair of the tower’s bowmen slumping against the narrow embrasures, arrows transfixing their bodies.

A great cry rose from the mob as a swarm of enraged humanity converged upon the scaffold at the centre of the square. Like a pack of rabid wolves, the rebels tore down the hateful platform, smashing it to splinters with their boots and bare hands when no other weapon was available. Perched atop the scaffold steps, Meisel shouted direction to his followers, ordering them to drag down the gibbet. Armed with the thick oak post that supported the gibbet, the mob swung back around and rushed at the massive gates of the Imperial Courthouse.

Alarm bells clattered, horns and trumpets blared as the besieged garrison announced its plight to the city. Drawn down to provide troops for Reiksmarshal Boeckenfoerde’s march against Talabheim, the garrison commander knew he didn’t have enough men to defend the fortress if the rebels should get inside. For the moment, the fools seemed content to use their improvised battering ram against the gates, but soon one of them would get the idea to employ ladders. When that happened, the Courthouse would be overrun. There weren’t enough soldiers to protect the walls.

The defenders of the Courts of Justice cast frantic eyes towards the nearby bulk of the Imperial Palace. There were hundreds of soldiers inside the palace, the Emperor’s own bodyguard and the elite Kaiserknecht. If those warriors would sally forth and break the revolt, then the Courthouse could be saved. Otherwise, Altdorf would play host to its second great massacre of the season.

Erich watched the attack on the Imperial Courthouse, waiting with bated breath for the moment when the violence of the mob would throw the defenders of the fortress into a panic. From long experience, he knew how soldiers reacted to the reduction of their foundation, how any battle assumed monstrous proportions when they were called upon to fight without their accustomed strength. When Meisel tore down the gibbet and the mob used it for a ram against the gates, it was the tipping point for the garrison commander. Horns and trumpets, bells and drums sounded from the fortress, appealing to any and all for assistance.

The closest help at hand was the Imperial Palace itself. Turning his gaze in that direction, he could see the confused agitation of the Palace Guard. Back and forth they rushed, reporting to their officers, then hurrying back to strengthen the defences at the Palace gate. For some twenty minutes, things continued in this manner, then a sharp clarion call echoed over the roofs of Altdorf. The inner gates withdrew into the ceiling of the gatehouse, the outer gates swung wide and a great company of knights came thundering down the marble walkway, the hooves of their mighty steeds striking sparks from the stones. Erich knew that golden tabard, marked with the hammer and laurel heraldry. The Kaiserknecht, Boris Goldgather’s personal retinue of knights, men who had been drawn not from noble families or the ranks of the Dienstleute, but rather foreign mercenaries who were bound to the Emperor by the only loyalty Boris understood: gold.

The captain of the Kaiserknecht shouted an order in his lilting, Bretonnian tongue and the riders behind him, with the precision of a machine, lowered the visors of their great helms. Each knight dipped his lance as he charged through the gate, then his huge destrier wheeled about and galloped through the streets towards the Imperial Courthouse.

Erich frowned as he watched the knights sally forth, wondering how long Meisel would be able to keep his rebels fighting against such awesome odds. Some measure had been made to delay the knights; barricades had been erected across many of the streets and marksmen waited on the roofs to snipe at their enemy. Still, as a knight himself, Erich knew the power of a cavalry charge and the psychological destruction it wrought even against disciplined troops. Many of Meisel’s rioters weren’t even that, simple peasants without any military experience. They would shatter like glass when the Kaiserknecht hit them. All Erich could hope for was that the knights would lose themselves in the thrill of slaughter. That when they realised they had been tricked, it would be too late.

‘Now, or never, your grace,’ Erich told the man beside him. Prince Sigdan nodded, but his expression was doubtful as he lifted his hands, the chains wound about them rattling against his armoured chest.

‘Sigmar preserve us,’ Prince Sigdan said.

‘And let’s not be too proud to ask Ranald for some help too,’ joked Baron Thornig. The shaggy Middenlander looked more comfortable in his chainmail and wolfskin cloak than he ever had in his robes of state. His hairy knuckles closed about the haft of an enormous hammer. ‘I still say you should let me have first crack at them.’

Erich laughed at the Middenlander’s impatience. ‘There will still be plenty to go around,’ he promised.

‘Unfortunately,’ observed Duke Konrad, looking somehow incongruous in his battered scale armour with a bright blue felt hat crunched down around his ears. ‘But at least we’ll get inside if this works. Trying to pass off that unwashed Ulrican beast as a Kaiserjaeger wouldn’t get us even that far.’

Baron Thornig’s eyes glittered menacingly. ‘When this is over, we should talk,’ he growled. ‘As Graf Gunthar’s emissary, I’m authorised to negotiate with other provinces.’

‘Enough talk,’ Prince Sigdan declared. ‘Those peasants won’t keep the Kaiserknecht busy for long.’ The reminder didn’t have to be repeated. Four of Prince Sigdan’s retainers, dressed in the armour and livery of the Kaiserjaeger, took hold of the nobleman’s arms. Erich, wearing similar uniform with the addition of a sergeant’s armband, took position at the head of the little procession.

The phoney Kaiserjaeger marched towards the gates of the Imperial Palace, herding the captive Prince Sigdan with them. Under his breath, Erich continued to whisper prayers to Sigmar. Now would be the most dangerous point in their plan.

The Palace Guard lowered their halberds as the men approached, suspicion on their faces. Summoning every ounce of command his voice could muster, Erich growled orders at the threatening guards.

‘We have arrested the traitor named Sigdan for inciting a revolt against His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Boris,’ Erich said. ‘Make way so that we can conduct this malcontent somewhere he will be safe.’

The guards continued to glare suspiciously at Erich. The knight could see one of them glance at a small bronze alarm bell set into the corner of the little watch post.

‘Why do you think those peasants are attacking the Courthouse!’ Erich snarled. ‘They think we’re keeping Sigdan there and they want to free him! Now let us in before they learn their mistake!’ Erich watched uncertainty grow on the faces of the guards. Before the soldiers could ask any questions, he decided to add a final remark to help decide them. ‘If this traitor gets away, I will see to it you answer to Commander Kreyssig.’

The threat worked. The sergeant in command of the gate waved his arms, motioning for the soldiers behind the walls to open the gate. Erich grinned when he saw the sergeant repeat the gesture for the benefit of the troops in the gatehouse. In his haste to get the prisoner inside, the sergeant was forgetting the most basic security. He was opening both gates at once.

‘I will tell the Emperor of your service,’ Erich promised. Then the knight’s armoured fist came smashing into the guard’s jaw, dropping him like a poleaxed ox. Instantly the other supposed Kaiserjaeger were leaping into action, rushing towards the inner gate before the stunned guards in the gatehouse could close it against them. The rest of the troops watching the outer gate were dragged down by the stealthy figures who stole upon them from behind. Soldiers from Duke Konrad’s retinue, these were men who had grown up stalking beastmen through the Drakwald. Sneaking up on the Palace Guard was child’s play to them.

‘Once we gain the inner courtyard we can use Sigismund’s escape tunnel to get into the Palace itself,’ Prince Sigdan said, casting off the chains that had been looped around his hands. Rulers of Altdorf in the long period when the emperor’s court had moved to Nuln, Sigdan’s ancestors had an intimate knowledge of the Imperial Palace from the days when it was under their stewardship. The old escape tunnel had become obsolete when the Palace was expanded beyond its original dimensions, but for some reason the passage had never been filled, simply bricked over. For a man who knew what he was looking for, it would be a simple task to open it up again.

Now that there was no need for subterfuge, the rebels came streaming towards the Palace. Some of them were Bread Marchers, but most were soldiers from the retinues of the conspirators themselves, Reikland swordsmen and Drakwald hunters, hairy axemen from Middenheim and grim halberdiers from Sylvania, archers from Stirland and flamboyantly attired sea-dogs from Westerland. Even a handful of halfling bowmen, Aldo Broadfoot’s contribution to the fight, came rushing along with the rest.

Erich gave the heterogeneous brigade its orders, pointing them towards the gatehouse where Prince Sigdan’s retainers struggled with the Palace Guard. The fake Kaiserjaeger already had the upper hand, but re-inforcements would quickly decide the fight.

‘Now if we can just get the Palace secure before Kreyssig brings his Kaiserjaeger here,’ Palatine Kretzulescu commented, his voice dour.

Baron Thornig clapped the cadaverous Sylvanian on the shoulder. ‘I shouldn’t worry about him. That problem has already been settled.’

Erich felt his blood run cold as he heard the Middenlander’s boast. ‘What have you done?’ he demanded.

The baron glared back at the knight, a smug smile on his face. ‘Erna is doing her part,’ he said. ‘And when that peasant scum is gone, no one will worry about how he died!’

Princess Erna gasped in pain as her husband’s fist smashed against her cheek. Blood dribbled from the corner of her mouth. Staggering back, she made a dive for the dagger that had fallen to the floor. Kreyssig lunged at her before she could grasp it, seizing her by the hair and wrenching her away with a savage twist. Again his fist lashed out, connecting with her belly and driving the breath from her lungs. Far from satisfied, he brought his fist smacking across her chin. Only the hand buried in her hair kept her upright.

‘My lord!’ shouted Fuerst, rushing towards his master. ‘Commander! You’ll kill her!’

Kreyssig turned and glared at his manservant. Blood was dripping from a long slash along the side of his face. ‘That’s the idea,’ he hissed.

Fuerst felt his gorge rise. A timid, even cowardly man, he had no stomach for bloodshed. That was why he had cried out when he entered his master’s bedchamber to announce a messenger below. Princess Erna had been standing over his sleeping master, the dagger in her hand. The distraction of Fuerst’s shout had caused her to falter for a moment, and in that moment, Kreyssig was able to roll away, his face suffering from a blade that was meant for his heart.

‘You can’t do that!’ Fuerst protested, rushing forwards as Kreyssig punched his reeling wife once more. The manservant reached out to stop him, but trembled at the thought of daring to touch his master. Instead, he pleaded for the woman’s life in the only way Kreyssig would understand. ‘If you kill her, you will never inherit the title of baron. They will never let you keep the dowry Baron Thornig bestowed on you. You’ll lose all the lands you would have inherited.’

Kreyssig’s face contorted into an almost inhuman snarl. Contemptuously he let Erna crumple to the floor. ‘Baron Thornig?’ he hissed. ‘That blue-blooded rogue was here today. He put her up to this!’ His eyes took on a reptilian quality as he wondered why the nobleman had desired his death so soon after the wedding.

‘Maybe it has something to do with the riot?’ Fuerst suggested.

The glowering commander rounded on his functionary. ‘What riot?’ he snapped. ‘Where? When?’

Fuerst backed away, flustered by his master’s barrage of questions. ‘An uprising outside the Courthouse,’ he said. ‘Not more than half past the last bell. There’s a messenger downst-’

Kreyssig snarled in rage, springing towards his wardrobe. ‘That is what this is about! They wanted me out of the way and used this witch to do it!’

Fuerst stared at his master, unwilling to believe his words. ‘Nobody… no one would dare…’

Shaking a boot at his servant, Kreyssig explained the one thing that would give an enemy the courage to strike at him in such a way. ‘They dare because they intend to remove the Emperor!’ he declared. ‘This riot is just a diversion!’ He pointed his finger at Fuerst. ‘Go tell that messenger to send word to all the Kaiserjaeger and any Schueters we can trust. The revolt isn’t at the Courthouse! It’s at the Imperial Palace!’

Eyes bugging from his face at the magnitude of what he was hearing, Fuerst scrambled downstairs to pass instructions to the messenger. Kreyssig continued to dress himself, already dreading he might be too late. He cast a hateful look at the unconscious woman strewn across the floor.

‘Before this is over, my dear,’ he said, ‘you will wish Fuerst had let me kill you.’

Skavenblight

Vorhexen, 1111

Thick coils of pungent incense veiled the vast hall in a smoky haze. Worm-oil lamps cast sickly green light from a great chandelier suspended from the soot-stained ceiling, conspiring with the smoke to cast weird shadows flickering about the walls. From the floor, an enormous glyph blazed with sinister brilliance, its sharp angles shining with a hellish luminance that rippled with echoes of flame and ruination.

Puskab Foulfur abased himself as he stepped towards the glowing symbol, the sigil of the Horned Rat. Though it was a false mask, the plague priest knew it was expected that he should prostrate himself before the symbol of the skaven god. Here, at the very heart of the Shattered Tower, the grey seers held sway and were zealous in punishing anything that smelled of heresy.

Piety, devotion to the Horned Rat. It was the final of the Twelve Tests and, in a perverse twist, also the easiest of them. Perhaps the grey seers really did depend upon their god to smite down any unbeliever. Or perhaps Seerlord Skrittar didn’t dare evoke some conjuration against Puskab and then claim it was a divine judgement. Whatever the case, the plague priest lifted his horned head and scurried across the floor, careful to carry himself with just the right mix of timidity and boldness the Lords of Decay would expect from a supplicant.

The plague priest scowled at the sigil as he stepped across it. One day Clan Pestilens would blot out the false superstitions of the grey seers. The plaguelords would reveal to the whole of skavendom the true aspect of the Horned One and cast aside once and forever the foolishness of deluded mystics. On that day, the ratmen would either bind themselves to the Pestilent Brotherhood, or they would be destroyed!

Taking a firm step across the angular horns of the sigil, Puskab lifted his eyes from the floor. The time of Clan Pestilens was coming. The Black Plague was already burrowing towards that day.

A raised dais dominated the far side of the hall. A pedestal draped in grey cloth loomed at the centre of the dais. Surrounding it, just dimly visible in the hazy mix of smoke and shadow, were thirteen stone seats, great thrones each adorned with the symbol of the Horned Rat. The personal banners of the council members hung suspended above each seat, displaying a chaotic confusion of glyphs, pictures and trophies.

Few skaven were ever allowed to enter the Shattered Tower, the megalithic structure which dominated Skavenblight and the whole of the Under-Empire. Fewer still were granted a glimpse of this place, the Chamber of the Thirteen, the great hall of the Lords of Decay!

Puskab struggled to focus his vision upon the figures seated upon the dais, but the effect of the incense and the flickering shadows made the effort impossible. The council members were always wary of assassination and so took pains to obscure their presence even within their most inviolate sanctums. For all the plague priest’s senses could tell, the creatures seated upon the dais might be no more than members of the Verminguard while the real Lords of Decay observed him from another room.

The plague priest scratched his muzzle while he waited for the masters of skavendom to acknowledge his right to stand before them. Anger briefly flickered through the ratman’s savage heart, resentment that despite the great service he had done, despite his discovery of the Black Plague, he had still been treated like a common clanrat by these lurking schemers!

The Twelve Tests were designed to slay any skaven desiring to challenge the Council of Thirteen. One test devised by each of the Lords of Decay. Some were cunning traps, others took the form of mind-wracking riddles while still others were composed of the most unfair and one-sided contests the vicious brain of a skaven could devise. All were alike in one respect — unless the challenger knew what to expect each of the tests was impossible.

There was only one way a challenger could prevail and that was how Puskab had done it. Through the sponsorship of a seated lord, and the use of his network of spies and informants, the challenger might learn the secret of each test before he ever set a paw within the black depths of the Shattered Tower. Blight Tenscratch had revealed to Puskab the trick to each trap, the answer to each riddle, the solution to each contest. Through the Wormlord’s connivance, Puskab had survived to make his challenge and demand a place among the council.

The figures upon the dais glowered down at Puskab for several minutes, their malignant scrutiny causing the plague priest to shiver and his glands to tighten. When they did deign to speak to him, it was the fierce tones of Warmonger Vecteek that boomed down from the shadowy thrones.

‘Poxmaster Puskab,’ Vecteek snarled. ‘We are pleased with your gift-offering. The man-things wither under the Black Plague. Their cities rot from within. They cower inside their burrows and hide from their own neighbours. They shall be easy-meat for our armies!’

Puskab bowed before the dais, crooking his head so he exposed his throat in the proper gesture of submission. ‘Happy-proud to serve-help great lords,’ Puskab said. ‘Black Plague kill-kill much-much. Many man-things sick-die! Bring-make glory to Horned One!’

‘Too many die!’ snapped High Vivisectionist Rattnak Vile. ‘Leave none to catch-take! No slave-meat to grow food and dig tunnels!’

‘And the plague strikes our own!’ growled Warpmaster Sythar Doom. ‘We have been forced to burn the burrows of Clan Verms because they caught your plague!’

Puskab quivered as the Grey Lords made their accusations. Any one of these tyrants could have him killed on the spot and none would be the wiser. He turned his eyes across the shadowy rim of the dais, trying to pierce the haze and appeal to his patron.

‘The infection of the Hive wasn’t the fault of Puskab Foulfur,’ Blight declared, his voice a threatening growl. ‘The Poxmaster has come here, braved the Twelve Tests to challenge the traitor who sits in our midst! He has come to topple this greedy maggot who has endangered all Skavenblight by his murderous schemes! The Horned Rat has allowed him into the Chamber of the Thirteen, that he may purge this council of the corruption within its ranks!’

The arguing Grey Lords fell silent as Blight’s words echoed through the great hall. ‘Is this true?’ the hacking tones of Arch-Plaguelord Nurglitch rasped. ‘Have you come here to challenge a traitor for his seat upon the council?’

Puskab raised his horned head, pulling the tattered hood back from his decayed face. ‘Survive-win Twelve Tests,’ he growled. ‘Now-now want-take Thirteenth Challenge! Take-win name-rank of Lord of Decay!’

Hisses and snarls filled the shadows as the lords of skavendom reacted to the reckless effrontery of the plague priest’s demands. Tradition and the convoluted politics of the Under-Empire dictated that Puskab had earned the right to make his challenge, but the villainous despots didn’t appreciate the callous way he addressed them.

‘Puskab is right,’ Blight shouted down the other lords. ‘The destruction of my warren demands justice! Challenge the traitor-meat! Remove his stink from the Shattered Tower!’

Puskab’s lips pulled back in a feral grin, exposing blackened fangs and bleeding gums. ‘Claim-fight traitor-meat who sick-kill Clan Verms! Claim-fight heretic-spleen who think-want poison-slay all skaven!’ The plague priest raised his fat claw and pointed to one of the black thrones.

‘Claim-fight Blight Tenscratch!’

Bylorhof

Ulriczeit, 1111

Frederick sat in a wicker chair, his back to the wall of the mortuary, his priest’s robes pulled tight against the preternatural cold which surrounded him. He stared out across the morbid chamber. It was silent now; the gnawing and scratching of rats as they fed upon the dead had been absent these past few days. Even the vermin had been driven off by the fell energies converging upon the place. There was only one living thing in the entire graveyard now.

The priest stared at the stone knife resting on the floor beside his chair. Many times he had taken up that blade and set it against his wrist. Against the horror he had unleashed, death would be a welcome release. That is, if death was still an option for him. It lacked the same finality with which he had regarded it a week ago.

He raised his eyes from the knife and gazed upon the silent, unmoving shapes facing him. Frederick had ordered them here and they had come. He could order them to leave, and they would go. If he closed his eyes and pictured their arms raised in salute, the decayed arms would rise. His merest whim was unbreakable law to these zombies. Creatures with no will of their own, they were utterly enslaved to the necromancer’s desires. Frederick found the concept alternately fascinating and abominable. His mind whirled with thoughts of power and emotions of blackest despair.

Necromancer. Another word from the tomes of Arisztid Olt, the title of the most reviled heretic of them all — the magician who pierced the veil between life and death, who drew his sorcery from the very emanations of the grave. One of the insane monsters who followed the forbidden arts of Nagash the Accursed.

Frederick tried to tell himself he wasn’t such a creature, that a vast gulf separated him from an apostate like Olt. He knew the argument was a lie, a final desperate effort to cling to decency and morality, to keep faith with the gods he had betrayed.

There was a reason why, for all his cleverness, Olt had been discovered. The temple had been built upon a nexus point, a convergence of magical forces that magnified any act of sorcery. When Olt had practised his spells, he had opened a gateway he could not shut. The dark energies had swelled and grown until they could not be ignored. That had proven Olt’s downfall. It had also proven the source of Frederick’s curse.

When he had conjured the ghost of Aysha, the priest had opened the floodgates. The baleful emanations, once tapped, had refused to recede. They had spread, directionless and unfocused, acting upon the subconscious desires of the necromancer who had drawn upon them. Locked within his mind were all of Olt’s spells and secrets, the knowledge of generations of sorcerers and witches stretching back to the sands of Nehekhara. In his slumber, his dreaming mind had evoked those spells and the directionless energies had brought them into being. Frederick’s guilt and shame at being unable to save the people of Bylorhof from the plague had resulted in the unconsecrated dead rising again as zombies — a sardonic and aimless refutation of the Black Plague.

It was a feat to impress any warlock — conjuration without apparatus or gesture, magecraft by sheer force of will alone. Frederick had never imagined such ability to lie untapped within his mind. If he had, he should have killed himself long ago.

The necromancer scowled at the rotting zombies standing before him. He was tempted to tell them to jump in a lake, except that was exactly what they would do. There was no limit to their servitude. As an experiment he had ordered one of them to chew off its own arm. Neglecting to specify which arm, he had looked on in amazement as the zombie gnawed its way through each arm in turn.

Emperors and kings did not command such loyalty! Frederick shuddered at the hideous power he possessed. Yet might such horror not be turned towards benevolence? Must only evil arise from evil? He was still a decent man, moral and just. He could control this terrible power. He would not allow it to control him.

Frederick rose from his chair, stalking past his zombies. He faced one of the niches, the niches filled with the corpses of Bylorhof’s dead. These bodies had failed to reanimate under the influence of the necromancer’s subconscious. Shriven, protected by rituals sacred to Morr, these dead were already consecrated. The protection against evil had been enough to fend away his undirected magic. But what would happen, he wondered, if he were to wilfully concentrate his power upon one of these bodies?

The necromancer turned away. A snap of his fingers sent a pair of zombies shambling over to the niche. Without uttering a sound, the undead reached into the corpse pile and dragged out the body of a young woman. Still acting upon their master’s unspoken command, the zombies carried their morbid burden to the stone table, laying it prostrate upon the cold surface.

As he stared down at the dead husk, Frederick pictured Aysha’s body lying there. For a moment, he felt a surge of regret. He almost desisted in the horrible experiment, but a tremendous desire to know, to understand the limits of his magic, pushed him on. Aysha was safe within the mausoleum, beside Johan and the templars of old. She had no part in this. There was only Frederick van Hal and some nameless bit of peasant carrion.

He closed his eyes, visualising the dark power, drawing strands of black energy and weaving them around the prostrate corpse. His lips moved in a whispered invocation, calling upon one of the Nine Names of Nagash. The foreign note of that name seemed to make the room tremble. Frederick could feel it crawling off his tongue, slithering like something alive across the mortuary to settle upon the dead woman’s pale brow.

For a moment the necromancer could feel the corpse struggling to oppose his will. It was a fleeting defiance, brushed away as casually as a cobweb. Frederick opened his eyes and extended his hand towards the corpse. Clumsily, the dead woman began to rise from the slab. A thin smile of triumph flashed across Frederick’s face. Even the protection of the gods wasn’t enough to defy his power!

The necromancer returned to his chair, staring across his undead slaves. This was power, but he would not abuse it. He would use this magic in the cause of justice, a counterpoint to the cruel abuses of corrupt lords like Baron von Rittendahl and Count Malbork von Drak.

Frederick’s eyes became cold and hard, his hands clenching around the arms of his chair.

There was too much injustice, too much suffering in Sylvania, but he knew just where he would start. The plague doktor, Bruno Havemann, murderer and charlatan. He would be made to confess his crimes.

And then he would answer for them.