by C. L. Werner
Kurgaz stepped away from the mess of pulp that had been the last enemy to fall before him. He glanced around, but there were no ratkin within his reach. He spat at the fleeing vermin in contempt. Lower than greenskins, these filthy skaven. At least an orc had the spine to stand and fight. There was no glory in a battle like this, victory against such an easily routed foe rang as hollow as an elven promise.
The dwarf swung Drakdrazh onto his shoulder, grunting as its weight pressed down on him. He wondered if the weapon shared his disappointment, his frustration that the fight was over before it was properly begun. A runeweapon had a spirit all its own, a divine spark pounded into it by the runesmiths who forged it. How the hammer must lament the fall from ancient glories to the culling of slinking ratkin!
‘Victory, Kurgaz!’ a sallow-bearded dwarf warrior shouted, sprinting towards the champion. Blood dripped from the warrior’s torn ear and there was a gash in his forearm where a skaven spear had pierced him, yet he seemed to give small consideration to his hurts, gripped by the jubilation of victory. ‘The skaven will think twice before they defile Grungni’s Tower again!’
Kurgaz scowled at the younger dwarf’s enthusiasm. ‘They turned and ran before the fight could even start,’ he cursed, kicking the rodent mush at his feet.
‘The honour is yours, Kurgaz,’ the warrior told him. ‘If not for you, the ratkin might have overwhelmed us. Broken out into the upper workings.’
‘What honour in slaughtering vermin?’ Kurgaz shook his head and patted the haft of his hammer. ‘They were unworthy of Drakdrazh.’
At that instant, a loud report echoed through the gallery. Kurgaz staggered as he was struck from behind, the shot slamming into him with such force that his mail was shredded by the impact. Acrid smoke and a torrent of blood rose from the wound. The dwarf took a stumbling step, then slammed face forwards onto the floor.
The dwarf warriors clearing out the last knots of lingering ratmen looked up, stunned to see a lone skaven dangling from one of the ventilation shafts. The creature was suspended by ropes, hanging upside down above the gallery. Clutched in its paws was the lethal bulk of a jezzail, smoke rising from its muzzle. Before any of the dwarfs could react, the verminous sniper slung its gun across its back and scampered back up the ropes, a chitter of sadistic amusement drifting down as it made its retreat.
‘The filth has shot Kurgaz Smallhammer!’ The shout echoed through the gallery almost as loudly as the shot had. In a matter of heartbeats, a ring of grave-faced dwarfs surrounded the prostrate form of their hero. They stared at the horrible wound in Kurgaz’s back, at the smouldering hole that had burned its way through layers of chain and leather to strike the flesh within.
One of the dwarfs, an old veteran with flecks of silver in his crimson beard, lifted Kurgaz onto his side and pressed his ear to the hero’s chest. ‘Take him to the stronghold!’ he called out. ‘Take him to his father while there is still breath in him!’
Solemnly, the dwarf warriors lifted their champion from the cold floor. Many of them had never seen a skaven jezzail before, but all of them recognised the corrupt nature of Kurgaz’s wound. The triumph of only a moment before was gone, stolen by this cowardly act that condemned a bold hero to an inglorious death.
The fortress-like façade of the temple of Ulric dominated the Ulricsmund, the flanking watchtowers and central spires rising far above the cluster of chapels, archives and rectories that crouched in the shadow of the main sanctuary and the Great Tower. The temple had been constructed in the earliest days of Middenheim’s founding, built by Wulcan, first to bear the title of Ar-Ulric. Dwarf architects had lent their expertise to the construction, affording it a brooding solidity not seen in human designs. In those bygone days, when the summit of the Ulricsberg was yet dominated by unexplored forest, when the Teutogens were but a primitive tribe of hunters, the temple had acted as refuge as well as sanctuary, it walls built to defy the assaults of beastmen, goblins and giants.
There was still a martial feel to the temple complex, something that was only natural given that Ulric wasn’t simply a god of winter and wolves, but of warfare as well. Knights of the Teutogen Guard stood duty before the great oak doors of the temple and patrolled the parapets of its walls. Many of the wolf-priests wore breastplates of steel or bronze as part of their clerical regalia. Upon the walls of the sanctuary, interspersed with the pelts of wolves and the skulls of giants, a wild profusion of swords, hammers and axes were displayed in places of honour, wooden placards announcing the deeds of each weapon. Where the image of Ulric was represented in human rather than lupine form, he was always depicted with his great axe, Blitzbeil.
As a Sigmarite, Brother Richter found the overall effect disturbing. Sigmar too was a god of war, but for his followers warfare was a sombre, brutal affair. It was grim necessity. The Temple of Ulric gloried in war, revelled in it, extolled it as a virtue in and of itself. For the Sigmarite, war was a means to defend civilisation. For the Ulrican, war needed no excuse. It was an elemental force as powerful as the sea and the forest, as vital and omnipresent as life and death, luck and fate.
The Ulrican faith had been the bedrock of the Empire. Sigmar had worshipped Ulric, had used the god of war to build his Empire and drive the enemies of man beyond its borders. Yet that had been long ago. Civilisation had grown from the barbarism of those days. Sigmar had ascended to take a place among the gods, and through his wisdom he had bestowed upon mankind a better way than the violent path of Ulric.
Brother Richter was sensitive to the nature of his thoughts. His personal misgivings about Ulric would certainly be considered blasphemous by the wolf-priests, just as their own misgivings about Sigmar’s divinity would be anathema to himself. It was, he supposed, a doctrinal impasse that could never be bridged.
Having no desire to intrude upon the Ulricans in their own temple, Brother Richter lingered at the entrance to the sanctuary while Prince Mandred, Lady Mirella and the knight Beck walked towards the altar, a great slab of alabaster that resembled a block of arctic ice. Richter could hear their footfalls echoing down from the vaulted ceiling. Dwarfcraft, that was the only explanation for such incredible architecture. The ceiling was over a hundred feet above the floor, and designed in such a fashion as to magnify and project the sounds coming from the fore of the temple. A speaker standing in the pulpit might send his slightest whisper rebounding to every corner of the sanctuary.
The Sigmarite didn’t contemplate the ceiling for long. Almost against his will, he felt his eyes drawn to the area beyond the altar, the spot of bare stone which was, in truth, the heart of both the temple and the city of Middenheim. Richter was uncomfortable gazing at it, feeling as though its very existence was a challenge to his own beliefs.
The cause of his discomfort was a great pillar of flame, a cold, white fire that blazed from the bare rock. It was one of the divine proofs the Ulricans espoused as evidence of their god’s dominance. The fire was called the Sacred Flame and was said to have been started by a spark from Ulric’s axe when the god cleaved the top from the Fauschlag and left the plateau upon which Middenheim was built. The fire had burned for thousands of years, without any visible source. It was claimed that so long as it burned, Ulric would protect Middenheim. The most aggressive of the wolf-priests challenged the clerics of other gods to present such evidence of their own deity’s presence.
‘The pure of heart may step within the Sacred Flame and suffer no hurt,’ a quiet voice spoke almost in Brother Richter’s ear. The Sigmarite gave a start, turning to find Ar-Ulric standing at his elbow. There was a curious, almost mischievous twinkle in his eye. ‘Would you care to test your virtue, brother? Or do you hold too many secrets to tempt the fire?’
Brother Richter smiled uneasily. ‘Only a proud man believes himself virtuous,’ he said. ‘And pride is the handmaiden of the Ruinous Powers.’ Boldly, he met the high priest’s gaze. ‘Have you made the test yourself, holiness?’<
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Ar-Ulric laughed and stroked his beard. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Like you, I believe testing a god is the best way to show that you are unworthy of him.’ His smile again became cunning. ‘I would be interested to discuss questions of dogma with you some time.’
‘I fear I am unworthy of such consideration,’ Brother Richter answered with a bow. ‘As a simple friar, how could I fairly debate with the High Priest of Ulric?’
‘And if you were Arch-Lector Wolfgang Hartwich?’ Ar-Ulric asked. ‘Might you debate me then?’ He raised his hand to silence whatever protest was on the Sigmarite’s lips. ‘I may be old, but my memory is keen as a razor. Better than your own, it seems. You forget that we met when that monster Boris was elected Emperor.’ He chuckled again as he added, ‘I was one of those who didn’t condone his ascension.’
Hartwich felt the barb as though it were a dagger thrust. It was true, the Temple of Sigmar had voted in favour of Boris Hohenbach. Another of the many crimes inflicted upon the Temple’s dignity by the late Grand Theogonist. In his own way, he’d done his best to atone for such ecclesiastical misdeeds.
‘Remember my invitation,’ Ar-Ulric said, proceeding down the central nave towards the altar and the Sacred Flame. ‘I stand ready to receive Brother Richter or Arch-Lector Hartwich whenever they might call upon me. And there’s no need for worry. I don’t have any friends in Altdorf interested in hearing of your miraculous resurrection.’
The high priest laughed again. ‘Now that should be a most illuminating topic for discussion, don’t you think?’
The atmosphere within the cavern was stifling, rife with the stink of thousands of furry bodies, hot with the breath of swarming skaven. The might of Clan Rictus, most powerful of the warrior clans, was gathering faster than new burrows could be excavated to contain them. The excess had started to spill over into the dwarf mines, threatening to expose the magnitude of the skaven presence.
Upon a throne crafted from the pelts of vanquished rivals, Grey Lord Vecteek, self-appointed High Tyrant of Skavendom, watched the multitude sweep past his perch. These were his chattel, his slaves. The greatest army in the whole Under-Empire, the hordes of Clan Rictus! Until now, he had been content to conserve the power of his clan, to allow others on the Council to weaken the man-things, to carve their petty victories from the carcass of the man-thing Empire.
The time for such intrigues was over. Now Clan Rictus would bare its fangs, show its despised rivals the only measure that mattered: power! Raw, merciless, brutal power! The other Lords of Decay would learn their place – laprats to their master, Vecteek the Vanquisher! Vecteek the Victorious!
The black-furred skaven scowled down from the rocky outcropping, drumming his claws against the spiked breastplate he wore. How many spies were down there, he wondered? How many ears had the other Grey Lords turned against him?
‘Dread tyrant, Plague Lord Puskab Foulfur kneel-bow before you.’
Warmonger Vecteek turned about in his throne, directing his scowl at the bloated apparition that genuflected before him. His nose wrinkled in revulsion at the necrotic stink wafting from the plague priest’s foul robes and diseased antlers. He resisted the temptation to have his Verminguard butcher the filth out of hand. Clan Pestilens still had a role in his plans and killing one of their Grey Lords was a good way to incite the whole of the clan against him. Far better to bide his time until they no longer had any value.
‘Speak-squeak,’ Vecteek demanded, lashing his tail against the rock. ‘When will man-nest fall to Black Plague?’
‘Soon-soon,’ Puskab promised. The plague priest had earned his place on the Council by creating the Black Plague, after the small detail of defeating a disgraced Grey Lord in ritual combat. There was no one else in the Under-Empire more familiar with the disease and its spread. Still, Vecteek was growing tired of the plaguelord’s assurances. For thirty food-cycles, the skaven had been sneaking into Middenheim, trying to spread the plague without any noticeable results. ‘Need-want direct passage to city. Must-must,’ Puskab twitched his ears nervously. ‘Dwarf-things in way,’ he confessed.
Vecteek bristled at the excuse. ‘Kill-kill all dwarf-things!’ he raged, tearing his sword from its sheath as he reared up from his throne.
Puskab’s rheumy eyes glittered in the illumination of a worm-oil lamp. ‘Mighty-wise Vecteek,’ he said. ‘You lose-die many clanrats fighting dwarf-things. Hurt-harm attack on man-things.’
The Warmonger’s fangs peeled back in an expression of savage challenge. ‘Think-think Clan Rictus weak?’
‘No-no!’ Puskab whined, bowing still lower, trying to placate the enraged tyrant. ‘But why waste-use Rictus-rats fighting dwarf-things?’ His tail twitched as he made a suggestion, one he knew would appeal to the paranoid despot. ‘Use-waste Mors-mice!’ he said.
Vecteek settled down in his throne, his sword across his lap. Use Clan Mors to attack the dwarf-things? Clan Mors, the most despised of Rictus’s rivals! He could order Warlord Vrrmik to bring his warriors to the Wolfrock, use them in the wasteful fight with the dwarfs. Meanwhile, the strength of Clan Rictus would be unleashed in its full fury upon the weak, plague-stricken humans. Clan Rictus would claim the victory and Clan Mors would be bled dry by the dwarfs!
A wonderful plan, Vecteek reflected, dismissing Puskab with a wave of his claw. He was happy he had thought of it. But, then, that was simply another reason why he was superior to the rest of the Grey Lords.
Carroburg
Nachexen, 1115
There were fewer of his guests on the battlements when it came time to distribute food to the peasants of Carroburg. Where only a few weeks before none of his subjects would have dared offend him by staying away, now only the most weak-willed of his sycophants stood upon the walls. The weak-willed and those who genuinely shared the Emperor’s vicious humour.
Boris blamed the séance and the spectre of his father. The ghost’s words had diminished him in the eyes of his subjects, made them doubt the power and authority of the living Emperor. It was tempting to thrust the ingrates from the castle, but that would only spread the discontent when they returned to their own provinces. No, he had to reinforce to them that he was in control, that he wasn’t going to be ruined by some phantom’s words of doom.
Down below, the soldiers herded a group of peasants towards the walls. By now, the beggars were accustomed to the humiliating ordeal. They didn’t need to be goaded into dropping onto all fours and acting like dogs in order to retrieve the scraps the nobles threw down to them. Their acceptance provoked the Emperor, cheating him of his enjoyment of the scene.
‘Stop!’ Boris growled at his guests, arresting several of them in the very act of throwing food to the peasants. The Emperor smiled at their quick obedience. Still smiling, he leaned out between the crenellations. His gaze swept across the ragged mob, finally picking out one of them to persecute. ‘You! Woman! Stand up!’
Hesitantly, the peasant woman gazed up at him. She was either too frightened or too stupid to obey him at once, so Boris snapped his fingers and brought one of the soldiers hurrying forwards. Roughly, the dienstmann jerked the peasant to her feet.
‘Let’s have a look at you,’ Boris declared. There were a few titters of amusement from his hangers-on. Again, he had to motion for the soldier to take a hand. The hood was pulled away from the woman’s head, exposing a dull, plain face.
One of the other peasants stood suddenly and approached the wall. ‘Please, Majesty,’ the man said in a tremulous voice. ‘She’s my wife.’
Boris grinned at the statement. ‘That is pitiable,’ he said. He glanced aside at the nobles around him. ‘You must be poor beyond words if you are reduced to bedding such a creature. Look at that cow! She must have been sired by an orc! A blind one if her mother looks half as bad as she!’
The cruel jest brought raucous laughs from the nobles on the wall. The peasant man lowered his face, hiding the
tears of shame and impotent rage streaming down his face.
Boris smirked and shouted down to his soldiers. ‘We desire to know if the rest of that thing is as revolting as what We’ve seen.’ He laughed when the woman tried to pull away from the dienstmann’s grasping fingers. The solider tore her shawl as she twisted from his grip, sending her tumbling to the ground.
The peasant man took a step towards his wife, hesitated as he saw more of the soldiers coming towards her. Desperately he looked to the beggars around him, but one and all they turned their heads. Helplessly, he appealed to the gloating Emperor above.
‘Have mercy, Majesty!’ the peasant cried.
A sadistic chuckle was the man’s answer. ‘We just want a peek at that curious specimen you brought to Us,’ Boris called down. ‘If she’s interesting enough, there might be a piece of silver waiting for you. The Imperial menagerie has been a bit anaemic of late.’ The Emperor’s jeering brought cruel mirth raining down on the man. Sobbing, the peasant fell to his knees and began pounding the dirt with his fists.
The soldiers had caught the woman and waited for the Emperor’s command. When he favoured them with a curt nod, one dienstmann started to rip away the peasant’s dress. Almost at once, the soldier jumped back, gasping. The other men released their prisoner, likewise drawing back in horror.
Boris frowned, his view obscured by the first soldier. ‘What’s wrong? Is that half-orc even more vile underneath those rags?’ The sneer left his face when the soldier moved and he had a look at the woman’s partially clothed body. Ugly black boils marred her flesh, the buboes of the Black Plague!
‘Plague! Gods preserve us, it is the plague!’ Count Artur shuddered. The cry was taken up by others, threatening to become a panic.
The Emperor glared down at the soldiers. ‘What do you mean bringing… bringing that…’ He spun around, snarling orders to the troops inside the castle. ‘Guards! Seal the gates! Archers… To the walls!’
