by C. L. Werner
Erna knew she wasn’t alone. She saw the way Markgraf Luther von Metzgernstein glowered whenever the Emperor wasn’t looking, fuming over the imprisonment of his six-year-old son in the castle dungeons. She watched Baron von Kirchof’s alarm when the Emperor’s eyes lingered on the shapely figure of his niece. She saw the pious shock in the kindly eyes of Matriarch Katrina Ochs, the Empire’s supreme priestess of Shallya, when the Emperor cast aside decency in order to placate one of his jaded whims.
Unlike her, however, these dissidents hid their true feelings. Day by day, she saw their convictions slink deeper and deeper inside them, shrinking a little more with each outrage the Emperor presented. Whether it was making crippled halflings dance a waltz or forcing a stuttering buffoon to recite the line of emperors, Boris’s perverse amusements went unchallenged by the sycophants he had gathered to him.
It was strange that while the convictions of others should wither under the influence of Boris, her own courage should be awakened. Kreyssig had failed to beat the heart from her and the daily offences perpetrated by the Emperor and his court caused Erna to rediscover her idealism. From shuddering fear, she began to treat the Emperor with disdain, even insolence. She knew there would be punishment for her openness, her refusal to condone the Emperor’s wickedness.
What she didn’t know was the shape that punishment would take.
One day, after an opulent luncheon of roast pheasant and minced truffles, the Emperor led his guests out onto the parapet overlooking the approach to the castle. Servants waited upon the dignitaries, presenting the Grand Prince of Stirland with a goblet of Bretonnian wine, offering the High Duchess of Nordland a trencher of pickled sturgeon eyes, enticing the Arch-Count of Averland with a platter of smoked swan. Boris waited while his guests sampled the extravagant fare, then, with a smile that Erna knew was directed solely towards her, he strode to the battlements and beckoned his guests to join him.
‘A diversion to feast your eyes as you’ve just feasted your bellies,’ the Emperor announced. He brought his hands together in a loud clap when some of his noble guests were peering down from the parapet, ensuring that Erna was among them. ‘There are some of you who disapprove of frivolity,’ he announced, waving aside the protests from his more voluble sycophants. ‘There are some of you who think that all this pleasure is indecent and wasteful.’
Boris paused, looking straight into Erna’s eyes. Down below, a group of soldiers had appeared, escorting a mob of tatterdemalion starvelings that had been culled from the streets of Carroburg.
‘Oh, what means this?’ Palatine Istvan Dohnanyi, the dapper pretender to the Talabecland peerage, asked, leaning between the crenellations for a better look.
‘I think His Imperial Majesty has some clever amusement planned,’ the rotund Count Artur of Nuln laughed.
Gustav van Meers, a Westerland peasant who’d earned his place among the inmates of Schloss Hohenbach by dint of his immense fortune – a fortune looted from Marienburg during the Norscan invasion – waved a perfumed handkerchief at the wretches below. ‘Not the most appealing specimens,’ he observed, hoping to illustrate to his noble peers that he was far above such common beggars.
‘What are you going to do with them?’ von Kirchof asked. Knowing the Emperor’s distaste for the unsightly, he was at a loss to understand why Boris would have such a ragged mob assembled outside the castle. Because he found it disturbing, it was easy for him to forget the sadistic humour that his sovereign sometimes indulged.
Emperor Boris smiled at his champion, and again made a point of locking eyes with Erna. ‘Why, we are going to feed these poor creatures,’ he said. ‘Just as the Thuringian kings of old used to throw table scraps to their dogs.’ He waved his hand to the guards below. At his sign, they shoved some of the peasants forwards, allowing them to come close to the wall. Almost at once, the rabble sent whining entreaties to the nobles staring down at them.
Von Kirchof was the first to react to the pleas, reaching to one of the trenchers and tossing a cut of smoked eel to one of the ragged men. Von Metzgernstein followed his example with a slice of pheasant. A few of the noble guests started to likewise throw scraps of food to the beggars. Erna, however, made no move to the wall. She was watching Emperor Boris, watching as his face contorted again into that cherubic grin, as the imp of perversity once more asserted itself.
‘Friends! Friends!’ the Emperor shouted, motioning his guests away from the wall. ‘This is hardly a fitting spectacle! It lacks a sense of theatre. It is not a true representation of the Thuringian lords.’ His face still lit by his ghastly humour, he looked down at the hungry peasants. ‘It is not fit that such aristocratic sensibilities should be subjected to the presence of wretched beggars. That would be offensive. But if we were to feed a few stray dogs… Well, what man does not show compassion to a dog?’
The Emperor raised his hand, displaying a cut of venison. He waved it to and fro before the hungry eyes of the peasants. Back and forth he teased them until one of the wretches understood what was expected. Dropping to all fours, the man barked and panted and whined. Laughing, Boris dropped the venison to the ground near the peasant. ‘No hands,’ he warned when the man started to stand. ‘Be a good dog.’
The peasant froze, a despondent sob rising from him. Then, obediently, he crawled to the meat and retrieved it from the dirt with his teeth. Emperor Boris laughed and applauded. He turned to his guests. ‘Now you see how the game should be played. If they expect to be fed like dogs, then they should act like dogs.’
The Emperor’s injunction had the most jaded of his court dashing to the servants and retrieving handfuls of food to throw at the peasants after teasing a humiliating performance out of them. A few of the courtiers hesitated, but were too concerned about drawing Boris’s disfavour to restrain themselves. Some made a better show of enjoying the cruel performance than others, but they threw food down to the ‘dogs’ just the same.
Doktor Moschner mounted the only kind of protest. ‘Your Imperial Majesty, I think it is unwise to bring these people here,’ he confided to the monarch. ‘These are low-born peasants. They may be carrying the plague.’
The cherubic smile dropped from the Emperor’s face, the humour fading into glowering severity. ‘There is no plague in Carroburg,’ Boris declared. ‘That is why We removed Our court here, why We left that peasant rascal Kreyssig in charge of Altdorf.’
The physician flinched at the ire in his master’s voice. ‘Forgive me… I only thought…’
Emperor Boris was already moving away, turning his attention to Princess Erna. Like the doktor, she hadn’t taken part in his cruel jest. He stopped a few paces from the woman, a cold smile back on his face.
‘Be careful, my dear,’ the Emperor advised, staring at her expression of undisguised disapproval. ‘If you become too much a boor, then We might decide you don’t like Our company.’
The Emperor nodded his head towards the battlements where his sycophants laughed and joked as they tossed scraps to the begging peasants. ‘If We tire of you, We might have to throw you to the dogs.’
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–’
&
nbsp; 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 grubenhäuser 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!’
