Dead Winter

Chapter XVIII

Altdorf

Vorhexen, 1111

‘Kill him!’ The oath came snarling from the lips of Duke Konrad, his hand tightening about the grip of Beast Slayer, the sword which, like all the other trappings of rule, Emperor Boris had stripped away from him.

The suggestion was taken up heartily by many of the rebels. A gang of Westerlanders raced out into the hallway, returning with the knotted cord from one of the tapestries, holding their improvised noose aloft with terrible purpose. The formerly defiant Boris Goldgather cringed against the side of the hydraulis, only Baron von Kirchof moving to stand beside him in his moment of peril. The swordless champion’s bravado brought a sneer from Count van Sauckelhof, who simply ordered his men to fetch a second noose.

It was Prince Sigdan who rallied to the Emperor’s defence. Stepping before the enraged rebels, he interposed himself between them and their prey. ‘We can’t do this!’ the prince declared.

‘Kreyssig will be too late to stop us,’ Erich vowed. ‘They’ll execute all of us when they catch us. Regicide won’t make us any less dead.’

Prince Sigdan gave the vengeful knight a look of reproof. ‘This isn’t about him, or about us,’ he said. ‘This is about the Empire. With the Palace in our hands, with the Emperor deposed, we could have played for time, built alliances. We’ve lost that opportunity now. We’ve lost everything.’

‘We still have that pig,’ Mihail Kretzulescu stated. ‘Killing him might not do any good, but it’ll make me feel good on my way to hell.’

Again, Prince Sigdan shook his head and moved to retard the advance of the lynch mob. ‘Killing him won’t do any good, but it will do great harm. The unity of the Empire hangs by a thread and this scheming churl has seen to it that he is that thread. Kill him and you plunge the Empire into anarchy.’ The prince fixed his stern gaze upon Kretzulescu. ‘Tell me, without the Emperor’s promise that Sylvania will be made its own province, what will Count von Drak do?’

Kretzulescu’s cadaverous face coloured as the question drove itself home. Almost embarrassedly he stared at Baron von Klauswitz. When he spoke, he addressed his words to the Stirlander. ‘Without the Emperor’s promise, Count von Drak would seek to seize independence through force of arms,’ the palatine confessed.

‘That’s right!’ Boris shouted. ‘Without me you treacherous jackals will be at each other’s throats! Like starving rats at the bottom of a barrel!’

‘If he abdicated, our stewardship would have legitimacy,’ Prince Sigdan said. ‘The other provinces would hold to the hope that all the favours Boris has promised them will bear fruit. No one will trust regicides.’ He turned and glared hatefully at Boris Goldgather. ‘The varlet’s own crimes make it impossible to kill him. For the good of the Empire, we have to let him live.’

The sombre, horrible statement swept through the minds of the rebels. With a roar of impotent fury, Duke Konrad turned about and drove the Runefang into one of the mirrors on the salon wall, transfixing the reflection of the reviled sovereign. One of the Drakwald archers loosed an arrow at Boris, the missile striking the water organ he was sheltered behind, quivering in the wood as the Emperor ducked against the side of the hydraulis. Before the bowman could nock another arrow, he was subdued by his own comrades. Crying, the archer was dragged from the salon.

Prince Sigdan turned on the ashen-faced Emperor. ‘Your word that these men will go free,’ he said. ‘If anyone is to atone for this revolt, let it be me.’

Emperor Boris rose to his feet, grimacing as his shoulder brushed against the arrow that had so nearly ended his rule. ‘We, Boris I, Protector of the Empire, Defier of the Dark, Emperor Himself and the Son of Emperors, Baron of Kutenholz, Duke of Scheinfeld, Chief Defender of the Faith of Holy Sigmar, do avow that all those who submit to our judgement will be treated with honour and leniency.’ A cruel smile twisted its way onto the Emperor’s face as his eyes bored into those of the prince. ‘With one exception,’ he added.

‘You can’t trust him!’ Baron Thornig growled. ‘I’d sooner hand a knife to a goblin and ask it to shave me!’

Prince Sigdan walked over to the furious Middenlander, setting his hand on the baron’s shoulder. ‘I don’t trust him,’ he said. ‘That is why we must ensure his honesty.’ The prince let his hand drop to the ancient metal of Ghal Maraz, feeling the slumbering power of Sigmar’s hammer crackle beneath his touch. ‘There is no symbol more sacred to the authority of an emperor than Sigmar’s hammer. You will need to take it someplace safe, hide it until you are certain Boris has honoured his word. Take the decree of abdication along with it.’ Sigdan turned back towards the Emperor. ‘You understand the conditions?’

Boris Goldgather glared back at the rebel prince. ‘I have said I will accept your offer of surrender,’ he said. ‘Especially in one particular.’

‘Whatever we’re going to do, we’d better decide quick!’ Erich cried. From his place near the doorway the knight could hear sounds of fighting in the ballroom below. It would only be a matter of minutes before the Kaiserjaeger reached the upper arcade and the salon.

‘Captain, I rely upon you to get Baron Thornig and Ghal Maraz out of the Palace,’ Prince Sigdan told Erich. He turned his attention to Count van Sauckelhof, whose Westerland sea-dogs made up the bulk of the force which had stormed the salon. ‘Count, you will need to buy them as much time to get away as you can. Purchase it with blood if necessary.’

The Westerlander saluted Prince Sigdan. ‘We’ll give them as much time as they need,’ he swore. The sea-dogs were already filing from the salon, broadswords and cudgels clenched in their fists. Count van Sauckelhof cast his gaze across the other retainers who had accompanied their disparate group. ‘I’ll be thankful for any volunteers,’ he said.

‘I will need only ten men to help me here,’ Prince Sigdan said when he saw most of the rebels moving to help the Westerland count. ‘My own men and four others,’ he suggested. Three of the Sylvanians and one of the Reiksknecht turned away from the doorway, leaving van Sauckelhof with a force of some forty men, among them Baron von Klauswitz.

‘Archers form up along the arcade,’ Duke Konrad called. ‘Pick off as many of Kreyssig’s thugs as you can before they get close.’ The Drakwalder bowmen saluted their lord and marched off behind the other defenders.

‘We’ll keep them occupied as long as we can,’ Count van Sauckelhof promised Erich as he passed. ‘Ranald guide your steps.’

‘And Sigmar watch over you,’ Erich told the nobleman, feeling his heart sink. There was no delusion about van Sauckelhof’s chances against the Emperor’s troops.

Caustic laughter rippled across the room as the warriors marched out to the arcade. Boris Goldgather sneered at the assembly of rebels left behind. ‘You spend their lives needlessly. You have my word I will show leniency. There is no need for this subterfuge, I assure you.’

Prince Sigdan ignored the Emperor’s promises. ‘You’d better be going,’ he told Erich and Baron Thornig. ‘As soon as the Kaiserjaeger liberate this jackal, you can expect them to come looking for you.’

Baron Thornig bowed before the prince. ‘For a delusional Sigmarite, you’ve the heart of an Ulrican,’ he said. His hairy hand patted the haft of Ghal Maraz. ‘Don’t worry, the only way they take this trinket back is by prying it from my cold dead hands.’

‘You should come with us,’ Erich insisted, tears in his voice. ‘That maggot will never keep his word.’

‘He might,’ Prince Sigdan told him, ‘if you two quit gabbing and get Ghal Maraz somewhere he can’t find it.’ A wry smile flickered on his face and he jabbed his thumb towards the captive sovereign and his retainers. ‘Besides, somebody has to stay here and play nursemaid.’

Erich’s spirit was leaden as he turned and strode from the salon. For the second time, he was abandoning a brave man, a man he looked up to as leader and lord, to a cruel and merciless fate.

Grim in their black livery, the Kaiserjaeger trooped into the Harmony Salon, immediately confiscating weapons from the rebels. They had listened to the shouts of combat ringing across the arcade. The fight was over in a hideously short time. The answer for the brevity of the battle marched into the salon beside a vengeful Adolf Kreyssig.

Baron von Klauswitz had turned against his fellow conspirators. In the heat of battle, he and his Stirlanders had turned against the others, throwing the rebel ranks into confusion. Victory for the Kaiserjaeger had swiftly followed.

The other rebels glared at the double-traitor. Von Klauswitz squirmed under their gaze, keeping close to the immense bulk of Gottwald Drechsler, as though seeking protection from the vicious executioner.

‘You are unharmed, your Imperial Majesty?’ Kreyssig asked as he made his way across the salon.

Emperor Boris stepped out from behind the water organ, his expression shifting from relief to undisguised malignance. ‘Our dignity has been impugned, but we are unwounded,’ he said. His lip curled in a sneer as he watched the Kaiserjaeger disarming his former captors. He shifted his gaze to Drechsler. ‘You will be a busy man, Scharfrichter.’

The cold words brought a howl of rage from Duke Konrad. The Drakwalder hurled himself at the smirking sovereign, but before he could close with his hated foe, he was clubbed down by Baron von Kirchof. The duke’s blood dripped from the gilded pommel of Beast Slayer, which the Emperor’s Champion had recovered from the mirrored wall.

Emperor Boris shook his head reprovingly. ‘That is a poor show, baron,’ he said. ‘Duke Konrad is a Hohenbach. His blood is my blood. His home is my home.’ He turned his attention to the bloodied nobleman. ‘I am afraid I cannot let a mere duke possess so fine a weapon as a Runefang. Therefore, in my capacity as Emperor, I hereby instate you as Count Konrad Aldrech, Grand Count of Drakwald.’ He laughed as he saw the look of incredulity spread across his kinsman’s features. The laughter ended with a vituperative hiss.

‘Baron, return the count’s sword to him,’ Emperor Boris ordered.

Count Konrad’s death rattle echoed from the mirrors, his body twitching as life bled out from it. Baron von Kirchof slowly cleansed the gore from Beast Slayer with a strip torn from the dead man’s cloak. Sight of the callous murder brought a shriek of terror rising from Baron von Klauswitz’s throat. The Stirlander prostrated himself before the Emperor.

‘Mercy, your Imperial Majesty!’ von Klauswitz cried. ‘I have been loyal to you from the start! I only played along with these traitors to learn what that Sylvanian scum was plotting! I am loyal, your Imperial Majesty!’

‘I have no use for traitors,’ Boris said. ‘Especially those whose loyalty shifts with each change of the wind.’

The Emperor snapped his jewelled fingers and a pair of Kaiserjaeger seized von Klauswitz and dragged him from the salon. ‘The grand duke will pay a severe fine for inflicting a traitor upon my court, as will all those who are represented by this faithless rabble,’ Boris declared. ‘And they will pay well to keep their enemies from learning of this scandal and using it against them.’

‘You have broken your word,’ Prince Sigdan said, glaring daggers at the Emperor.

‘An empty promise given to a rebel and a traitor,’ Emperor Boris snarled, but his reply caused Kreyssig to stare anxiously at the renegade prince.

‘What promise?’ Kreyssig demanded, all deference vanished from his voice. The tone so shocked Emperor Boris that it took him some time to sputter out a reply.

‘He sent two of his rabble to sneak off with Ghal Maraz and a decree they forced me to sign,’ Boris reported. The Emperor’s voice grew more confident. ‘They were to return them to me if I allowed their friends to be released unharmed.’ He chuckled malignantly. ‘But now they’ll return them to keep me from hanging this scum.’

Hearing the Emperor’s oath, Prince Sigdan whirled upon the guards flanking him. His knee caught the leftmost Kaiserjaeger in the stomach, doubling him over and knocking the sword from his grip. Even as the other guards swung around to club the nobleman senseless, Sigdan was scrambling for the sword. Before any could stop him, the prince brought the sharp edge of the blade slicing across his throat.

‘There goes your bargaining chip!’ Kreyssig raged, shaking his fist at the dying prince. Noting their commander’s rage, the Kaiserjaeger forced the remaining rebels to their knees, ready to smash them senseless at the slightest move.

Emperor Boris walked forwards and scowled down at the dead Sigdan. ‘It is of no consequence. Sooner or later the pig would have died.’

‘His followers still have Ghal Maraz!’ Kreyssig yelled, astonished by his sovereign’s lack of concern.

‘A hoary old trinket,’ Boris scoffed. ‘I’ll have some dwarfs knock up another one. Nobody will know the difference.’

‘They will if those traitors show that hammer to anyone,’ Kreyssig hissed through clenched teeth.

Understanding suddenly dawned on Emperor Boris. Prince Sigdan had spoken of hiding Ghal Maraz, but if Baron Thornig decided to take it to one of the other provinces, combined with the decree of abdication, one of the elector counts would have enough justification to compel the others to depose him!

Emperor Boris grabbed Kreyssig’s arm. ‘You have to find them! Catch them! There were two of them! They can’t have gone far! They must still be in the Palace!’

Kreyssig shook off the Emperor’s grip. A crafty gleam came into his eyes. ‘No, I don’t think they’re in the Palace any more. But I know where they did go.’

Barking orders to his men, Kreyssig detached Gottwald Drechsler and five Kaiserjaeger to accompany him.

Boris Goldgather watched the soldiers run from the room, sweat beading his brow. If Kreyssig failed to find those two traitors…

Sharp laughter broke the Emperor’s gloomy thoughts. He looked aside to see Aldo Broadfellow’s fat frame bouncing with humour. ‘Where do you think they’ll take Ghal Maraz to? Wolfenburg or Mordheim? Who would you like to see as the next emperor?’

Boris glared at the defiant halfling, noting with particular distaste the hairy naked feet. ‘Get this animal some boots,’ he spat. ‘Iron boots,’ he added, the cruel smile working itself back onto his face.

‘His feet look cold.’

Middenheim

Vorhexen, 1111

Graf Gunthar didn’t say anything, he just leaned forwards in his saddle and stared down at his son. The look in his eyes conveyed such pain and fear that Mandred felt all the pride inside him wither and die. The Graf was still silent when a tall knight with a thick blond mane of hair addressed the riders on the causeway.

‘Grand Master Arno,’ he called out. ‘You and your men have violated the Graf’s decree. By the letter of the law, your lives are forfeit.’

The Grand Master bowed his head. ‘We understood that when we left the city, Grand Commander Vitholf. What we did was… necessary.’

‘As is what we must do,’ Vitholf said, emotion threatening to overwhelm his voice. He stiffened his posture, trying to compose himself. ‘Against the Graf’s orders, you have ridden into Warrenburg. You have been exposed to the plague and become a threat to Middenheim. You are hereby declared outlaw and exiled from the dominion of Graf Gunthar.’

Arno sighed as he heard the pronouncement. It was pretty much what he had expected to hear. ‘Serve the Order of the White Wolf well, Grand Master Vitholf,’ he said.

‘I will strive to bring the Order the same honour you have bestowed upon it,’ Vitholf swore.

Arno and his knights began to turn their horses about, to retrace their path back down to the shantytown. Mandred, unable to maintain his father’s pained gaze, started to follow them.

‘You have not been dismissed, Prince of Middenheim,’ Graf Gunthar’s deep voice barked. He spurred his horse forwards, descending halfway down the causeway before drawing rein again. He pointed at his son. ‘You have disobeyed my command. For that I strip you of rank and authority. Until you are old enough to act like the prince, you will not be prince!’

Mandred’s jaw clenched as he heard his father’s furious words. ‘Is that all, your highness?’ he growled.

Graf Gunthar clenched his fist, his arm pulling back as though he would reach across the span separating them and strike his son. Instead he pointed his hand at the gate. ‘Get inside!’ he ordered.

‘My place is with Grand Master Arno,’ Mandred stated defiantly.

‘Your place is where I tell you!’ Graf Gunthar shouted. His enraged eyes bored into those of the prince. ‘Are you enough of a man to go of your own volition, or must I have you carried in like an unruly child?’

Mandred glared at his father. For a moment, he considered calling the Graf’s bluff, but he couldn’t forget the pain he saw on his father’s face.

Turning in his saddle, Mandred nodded apologetically to Arno and his knights. ‘Come along, Franz,’ he said, spurring his horse up towards the gate. It took him only a moment to realise his bodyguard wasn’t following him. Wheeling his steed around, he found Franz hadn’t even moved.

‘I’m sorry, your grace,’ the knight said. ‘But I can’t go with you. It’s too late.’ He reached a hand to his tunic, pulling it open to display the black blisters marking his throat. Mandred stared in mute horror at the sign of the plague. He knew that sometimes it could strike quickly, but it seemed impossible to him that a man could be riding down beastkin one moment and in the next find himself a victim of the Black Plague.

Franz bowed and turned his horse around before the prince could say anything. Before Mandred overcame his shock, the faithful knight was already halfway to Warrenburg.

‘Goodbye, old friend,’ he whispered.

Now he understood what his father meant. But that understanding was too late.

The Graf’s entourage rode slowly through the streets of Middenheim. None of the riders spoke, their spirits subdued by the knowledge that they had abandoned brave men to the Black Plague, shamed by the know-ledge that it was what they had to do.

Mandred rode beside his father, feeling the guilt inside him growing with every step. It had been his idea to ride to the defence of Warrenburg; he had led the way. In his mind, he had accepted the possibility it would mean all their lives, that they might fall in battle or contract the plague. But actually seeing it, watching Franz ride back into the shantytown and certain death — that had sobered him in a way nothing else could.

‘You should have left me out there,’ Mandred said, his voice low and subdued.

The Graf smiled at him. ‘Do you think I could?’ he asked. ‘Is that what you think of me?’

‘It’s wrong,’ Mandred said. ‘If Franz… I was right beside him. I might be carrying the same pestilence with me.’ Panic crept into the prince’s voice. ‘Even now I might be bringing death into our city!’

Graf Gunthar nodded his head. ‘A wise leader thinks of his own people first. He puts their needs, their safety ahead of anyone. He lets nothing jeopardise that. He lets nothing come between himself and his obligation to his subjects. That is the difference between a good man and a grasping tyrant.

‘One day you will be Graf. One day you will lead our people.’ Graf Gunthar leaned over his saddle, drawing near his son so that Mandred couldn’t mistake his whispered words. ‘When that day comes, remember this day. Remember that I was weak. Remember that when the choice had to be made, I chose to save my son instead of my people.’

Bewilderment shone on Mandred’s face. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘My duty was to leave you out there,’ Graf Gunthar said. ‘To keep any chance of the plague from reaching my subjects. But you are my son! Ulric forgive me, but I’d see this whole city die before I abandoned you!’

Mandred shook his head, stunned by the passion in his father’s voice. ‘I never thought…’

‘You never thought your father was so weak,’ the Graf said. He sat straight in his saddle, turning his gaze from Mandred to the street ahead.

‘When the time comes, son, be a stronger leader than I was.’

Altdorf

Vorhexen, 1111

The dank stench of the sewers washed over the two fugitives as they hurried down the black tunnels. The beady eyes of rats gleamed as their lantern cast its rays into the darkness. It was always with profound relief that the men watched their verminous spectators slink deeper into the shadows.

‘Ranald’s own luck,’ Baron Thornig grunted as his foot slipped from the ledge and sloshed into the channel of effluent coursing beneath the Palace. Even a nobleman hardened to battle didn’t want to think about the sort of muck now coating his boot. The hairy Middenlander shifted the heavy bulk of Ghal Maraz where it was lashed across his shoulders and accepted Erich’s hand. Straining, the knight pulled the baron back onto the ledge.

‘You can thank Ranald that part of the floor in the old escape tunnel dropped down into the sewers,’ Erich said, yet even as he said it a flicker of doubt tugged at him. He still couldn’t escape the impression that the floor had been dug out, not fallen in.

Baron Thornig scowled at the muck on his boot. ‘I’d thank him better if he kept his gifts a bit cleaner.’

Better than you deserve, you manipulative bastard. Erich resisted the temptation to push the Middenlander back into the channel. He couldn’t forget that this man had used his own daughter as a sordid weapon against his enemies. A weapon who had clearly failed based upon the quick deployment of the Kaiserjaeger to the Imperial Palace. The hideous sacrifice Baron Thornig had allowed Princess Erna to make had been for nothing. Even if she had eliminated Kreyssig, Emperor Boris would just appoint another monster in his place.

‘Where the blazes are we?’ Baron Thornig grumbled, squinting at the murky walls. ‘It all looks the same to me.’

Erich turned the lantern around, shining it at the channel between the ledges. A faint current was detectable in the stream of filth. ‘If we follow the direction of the flow, we’ll eventually reach the ri…’

The knight bit off the last words. From ahead he could see the glow of moving lights and the murmur of whispering voices. Instantly, his mind was thrown back to the reckless escape from Lady Mirella’s cellar. There were Kaiserjaeger ahead of them, searching the sewers for them! They must have discovered the old escape tunnel.

‘We can’t go that way,’ Erich whispered to Baron Thornig.

‘Where do we go?’ the Middenlander asked.

Erich shook his shoulders. ‘It doesn’t matter, just as long as we keep Ghal Maraz out of their hands.’ Carefully, the knight backed away, leading his companion down one of the older culverts. The two fugitives raced along the ledge, hurrying to the next intersection, trying to put as irregular a path between themselves and their pursuers as they could.

So intent were they upon the Kaiserjaeger they had seen that they weren’t aware of the other group of hunters until they came around a slime-covered corner and saw a squad of black-liveried thugs marching in their direction. At their head, his face like the leering visage of a forest devil, was Adolf Kreyssig.

‘There you are,’ Kreyssig hissed. He pointed a finger at the two rebels. ‘Kill them,’ he growled at the thugs behind him.

Outnumbered and outguessed, the two fugitives turned and ran back into the darkness. Erich cursed himself for being outsmarted. Finding the sewer opening, Kreyssig had sent a gang of his thugs to the river entrance while he followed the route the fugitives had taken. Underestimating the peasant was a mistake Erich swore he would never make again.

If there was an ‘again.’

This section of the sewers, flowing beneath the manors and townhouses of the nobility, was a confusion of side passages and cul-de-sacs. If they could just put enough distance between themselves and their pursuers, Erich was certain they could lose them. The biggest factor against them was the glow of their lantern. The light was like a beacon, drawing the Kaiserjaeger on, yet neither of the rebels dared even consider dousing it.

Ahead, the tunnel twisted into a much narrower channel, the ledges disappearing entirely, forcing the men to slog their way through the filthy channel. They struggled to make way through the sucking mire, the sluggish current just enough to make each step a trial of balance and determination. All around them, they could see the glistening eyes of rats and hear the rodents slithering through the water.

Suddenly, something stepped out from a fissure in the tunnel wall. It was the same sort of shadowy, slouching shape Erich imagined he had seen before. Only now it stood revealed in all its loathsome horror. A twisted monstrosity, merging the verminous flesh of an enormous rat with the posture and build of a man. Grimy armour and a filthy cloak girded the obscenity’s body while in its claws it held a rusty sword.

Erich cried out in disgust and horror. Baron Thornig turned and staggered away, losing his footing and plunging into the muck. It took every ounce of courage he possessed for the knight to turn his back on the rat-fiend to help the foundering Middenlander.

Kaiserjaeger or no, the men fled back the way they had come. Whatever fate they might expect from Kreyssig, at least it would take place in the clean world of man, not the abominable realm of myth and legend. Better to die in the clutches of a tyrant than to slip into the paws of the underfolk!

Neither man could keep from looking back as they retreated. Erich shuddered at every turn, fancying he could see the ratman’s eyes shining in the darkness. Nor, if his impression was true, was the monster alone. The terrifying retreat from the vermin under Lady Mirella’s now repeated itself, only magnified a thousandfold. Erich called out to Sigmar, to Ulric, to Taal and Shallya, to any god that might hear for deliverance from such nightmarish abominations.

Around the next corner, the fugitives again saw the glow from Kreyssig’s lanterns. The triumphant shouts of the pursuing Kaiserjaeger stirred a last desperate urge for survival. With the ratmen at their back and the Kaiserjaeger ahead, Erich darted down the side-passage to their left, the only option open to them now.

The knight could feel his heart thundering against his ribs as he squirmed and squeezed his way through the narrow opening. He gripped Baron Thornig’s arm, pulling the Middenlander after him. For one terrible instant, the baron became caught. Shrieking in horror, he drew away from Erich. A moment of panicked activity, and the baron removed the impediment. Erich heard the metallic crash as Ghal Maraz was dumped unceremoniously onto the slime-coated flagstones.

‘We can’t leave it behind!’ Erich shouted, but the terrified baron was already forcing the knight forwards. Erich fought back, refusing to abandon the most sacred symbol in all the Empire. To an Ulrican like Baron Thornig, it might be just another dwarf trinket, but to a Sigmarite, there was no more holy relic in the entire world. Redoubling his efforts, the knight forced the panicked Middenlander back. The baron wrapped his hairy arms around Erich, trying to lift the knight and carry him.

In his struggle to resist, Erich dropped the lantern, plunging them both into darkness. Terror rushed in to flood the knight’s brain. Impelled by the panicked persistence of Baron Thornig, he shifted about and squirmed down the narrow crack.

The two men emerged into a rough chamber, its crumbling stone walls and piles of broken masonry making it seem like a cellar. A number of shattered stone sarcophagi made it clear they were in some sort of family crypt of incredible antiquity.

Erich had only a moment to take in his surroundings, however. The light was that being cast by the lanterns of the Kaiserjaeger. Kreyssig stood upon a sarcophagus, his arms folded across his chest, a contemptuous smirk on his face.

‘You should have used the main channel,’ Kreyssig said, nodding his chin at a broad opening in the southern wall of the crypt. ‘It’s quicker.’

Baron Thornig dropped to his knees, his eyes still wide with terror. ‘Adolf, please! You must listen! There are… things… following…’

The commander of the Kaiserjaeger chuckled malevolently. ‘Is that really my dear father-in-law? I would never have believed him a party to any conspiracy to depose our great and gracious Boris Goldgather.’ His voice lowered into a vicious hiss. ‘At least right up until the moment my wife tried to slit my throat. Tell me, father, after I execute you, how long do I have to keep her alive before I can claim the title?’

With every word, the horror in Baron Thornig’s eyes faded a little more, burned away by a swelling hatred. Kreyssig saw the change, dropping down from his perch and taking a few steps back. ‘Kill them and bring me the hammer,’ he said, waving his thugs forwards.

Erich drew his sword, prepared to sell his life as dearly as he could. He singled out the murderous bulk of Drechsler. If he could only take one enemy with him, he vowed it would be the Scharfrichter. He glanced aside at the baron, hoping the man’s senses would rally before he was butchered out of hand by the advancing Kaiserjaeger.

The Kaiserjaeger wore confident expressions as they stalked forwards, but before they reached Erich, those expressions changed. Colour drained from their complexions and they staggered back in gasping horror. Erich didn’t need to turn around to know what they had seen. Lunging for a nearby sarcophagus, the knight rolled into cover and watched as a swarm of chittering monstrosities came spilling from the narrow crack in the wall.

‘Forget the mutants!’ Kreyssig was shouting. ‘Get the rebels!’ But for once fear of their commander wasn’t enough to make the Kaiserjaeger obey. Ancient night-terrors, fables learned in the cradle, horror stories told about winter hearths, all of these came rushing through the minds of the soldiers. The instinctive loathing and fear of vermin of every breed and stripe gripped their brains. Crying out with the same disgust Erich had voiced, the Kaiserjaeger met the ratmen.

Erich watched as Reikland steel clashed against the rusted blades of the verminous monsters, as brawny men matched their strength against the wiry suppleness of ratkin. The speed of the monsters was unbelievable, only the spastic crudity of their swordsmanship allowing the Kaiserjaeger any chance at all.

Then Erich found his gaze wandering away from the general fray to focus upon one combatant. Gotthard Drechsler was fending off three of the ratmen at once. The executioner’s legs were slashed, his torso betraying a jagged cut, but already two ratmen lay broken at his feet. While the knight watched, the Scharfrichter caught one of his enemies with his huge sword. The ratkin’s body was flung across the crypt by the impact, bones cracking as it smashed against the crumbling wall. Even as the creature crumpled to the floor, Drechsler brought the flat of his blade smashing down upon the snout of another foe, shattering its muzzle and leaving the ratman twitching at his feet.

Where Erich might have sympathised with another combatant, rallied to their shared humanity against a subhuman abomination, he could feel only hate. In his mind flashed the memory of Grand Master von Schomberg’s humiliating and cruel execution, and the Scharfrichter’s role in that atrocity. Revenge decided his actions. Clutching his sword, Erich sprang from cover.

Drechsler was still engaged with the last of his adversaries when Erich came at him. The knight felt no dishonour in attacking such a butcher from ambush. Any right Drechsler had to chivalry had been forfeited in the Widows’ Plaza.

The knight’s sword stabbed deep in the executioner’s back, piercing him through the belly. Drechsler screamed in agony, spinning around and swatting Erich with the back of his hand. The knight reeled, feeling as though he’d been kicked by a horse. Through his spinning gaze he could see Drechsler lurching towards him, the tip of the sword still protruding from his body. By an incredible feat of stamina, the executioner ignored his wound and raised his massive zweihander for a murderous sweep. Erich saw death glistening in the Scharfrichter’s eyes.

Then a verminous shape pounced upon the executioner’s broad back, rodent fangs burying themselves in his neck. Drechsler howled in agony as blood spurted from torn veins, as his monstrous enemy worried at his flesh. The zweihander fell from his weakened fingers. He clutched feebly at the ratman on his back, but the creature squirmed away from his hands, dropping to the floor and watching with savage glee as the dying man slumped to his knees. A titter of malignant laughter rushed past the ratman’s fangs as Drechsler crashed face-first to the floor.

Erich staggered back, fumbling for the dagger in his belt, sickened as he watched Drechsler’s blood dripping from the ratman’s muzzle. Myth or monster, he would not die in such a way!

Above the sounds of battle and the squeaks of the monsters, the voice of Adolf Kreyssig continued to ring out, desperately trying to stop the chaos. His Kaiserjaeger, however, remained deaf to Kreyssig’s cries. There was only one man who noted the commander’s voice. Ignored by both ratkin and Kaiserjaeger, Baron Thornig rose to his feet. Glaring at Kreyssig, the Middenlander tightened his grip on his warhammer. With a fierce bellow of ‘Erna!’ the baron charged his enemy.

The war cry did not go unheard. Kreyssig noted the maddened Middenlander’s rush, darting aside as Baron Thornig swung his massive hammer at him. The weapon swept past the commander, smashing against the wall of the crypt instead. Masonry rained down from the crumbling wall as a jagged crack slithered its way up to the stone ceiling.

‘Relent, you fool!’ Kreyssig snarled, slashing his blade across the baron’s arm. Thornig ignored the cut, striking once more at the peasant. Again, the blow failed to connect with his enemy, crashing instead against the wall.

This time, the entire crypt shook. The ratkin raised their muzzles towards the ceiling, frightened squeaks rippling from their throats. In a single, chittering mob, they broke and scattered, clawing at each other in their haste to squeeze back into the fissure.

An instant later great blocks of stone came thundering down from the roof. Erich saw one of them smash into Baron Thornig, battering the enraged Middenlander to the floor. Another mass of rubble pulverised a wounded Kaiserjaeger, reducing him to a red smear on the ground.

The other Kaiserjaeger ran for the south exit. Erich could see Kreyssig start after them, then turn back towards Baron Thornig’s body. Stones smashed down around the commander as he darted through the collapsing crypt. There was an exultant look of triumph on his face as he ripped the warhammer from Thornig’s lifeless fingers. That expression quickly faded when he saw his prize wasn’t Ghal Maraz, just a heavy chunk of Middenheim steel. He just had time to appreciate his mistake before a mass of stone came crashing down. Kreyssig screamed, raising his arms in a futile effort to shield himself.

It was the last thing Erich saw before a stone slammed into the back of his head and his world collapsed into darkness.

Erich von Kranzbeuhler awoke to pain. His body felt like one enormous sore, hurting in places he didn’t even know existed. The smell and the darkness told him he was still in the sewers.

He was surprised to be alive.

A furtive rustling sound snapped him from bleary contemplation of his wounds to terrified awareness. There was a lantern resting beside him. Frantically, he reached for it, never questioning its presence. Feeding more oil to the flame, he found that he wasn’t in the crypt, but in an entirely different part of the sewers. Such understanding had barely registered, however, before he was pressing himself against the wall, stark terror racing through his veins.

Crouched only a few feet from him was one of the ghastly ratmen, studying him with its beady red eyes. The creature bared its fangs as the lamplight washed over it. Erich’s horror only increased when the thing spoke to him in a shrill, squeaky whisper.

‘Man-thing leave-go,’ the ratman said, pointing a clawed finger down the tunnel. ‘Scurry-hurry, quick-quick!’ it added, a long scaly tail slapping against the floor behind it, either in a display of annoyance or as an emphatic gesture. The creature lowered its finger, pointing at something lying on the ledge beside Erich. ‘Take-hide king-hammer,’ it squeaked, its body trembling in fear.

Erich forced himself to follow the ratkin’s pointing claw. When he did, he was shocked to see Ghal Maraz resting on the ledge. Somehow, for whatever reason, the ghastly ratmen had recovered Sigmar’s hammer and returned it to him.

Despite his horror and disgust, Erich tried to force words of gratitude. The monster, perhaps the same that had fought Drechsler, had no patience for such propriety. Again, it lashed its tail and pointed imperiously down the tunnel. ‘Take-go, quick-quick!’

Painfully, Erich rose to his feet and gathered up the warhammer. He noticed the flow in the channel was moving in the direction the ratman pointed. If he followed the passage, he would reach the river.

Wearily, Erich turned and made his way down the tunnel. When he looked back, the ratman was gone, the lantern failing to reveal even the shine of its eyes. Why the ratmen had brought him here, why they had saved him and helped him were mysteries he couldn’t fathom. Perhaps they weren’t so different from men and dwarfs and halflings, despite their monstrous appearance. Perhaps they too couldn’t abide tyranny and a world governed by fear.

Whatever their purpose, Erich was thankful. He would take Ghal Maraz far from Altdorf, far beyond Boris Goldgather’s reach. It would be the first blow in a new struggle to end the tyrant’s reign.

In the darkness, the skaven watched their pawn creep towards the river, malicious mirth hissing past their fangs. Adolf Kreyssig had been a useful pawn, but Erich von Kranzbeuhler would be an even better one. He would take the king-hammer away to another of the man-thing warlords. Then that warlord would declare himself emperor-thing and the man-warrens would make war against each other.

Whatever the Black Plague didn’t kill, the man-things would slaughter in their war, further draining their strength.

Whichever man-thing won didn’t matter. The skaven would be there to vanquish the exhausted survivor.

From the ruins, the skaven would inherit all.