by C. L. Werner
As he stalked through the gates of the half-formed castle, his legion of bog-men shambling after him, Lothar felt uneasy. Something was wrong. He could feel a tremendous energy in the air, a force so powerful that it seemed to pluck at his own spirit, as though eager to drag it from his flesh. It was a frightful, abominable sensation, a sickening violation of his innermost being. For all the revulsion it evoked, the experience was even more horrible because Lothar knew it wasn’t even directed against him, he simply happened to be within its reach. He was inconsequential to it, nothing more than a hapless bystander.
Anger flared inside the necromancer. Evoking spells of protection, girding his soul in spectral armour, Lothar dashed inside the unfinished fortress, racing down the length of the vast assembly hall. With every step, he could feel the aethyric vibrations growing, a dull hum of energy that caused his ears to ring and a trickle of blood to stream down his nose. A wave of nausea swept through him, threatening to flatten him as he mounted the spiral staircase and began to climb to the séance room. Lothar dabbed his finger in the blood draining down his nose, using the sanguine medium to strengthen his spells of protection. Refortified, he rushed up the steps.
The séance room was a howling tempest of sorcerous energies, gales of spectral power whipping about the chamber. The circles on the floor were struggling to contain that force; Lothar could see the discordant harmonies whirling about inside each ring, his witchsight giving him a glimpse at formless things struggling to possess shape.
This, however, was the least manifestation of the power being drawn into this place. Arrayed about the séance chamber were the tops of the pre-human menhirs. The ancient stones were ablaze with eldritch emanations, tendrils of light that crackled and danced as they ascended through the half-formed tower. Lothar craned his head, following their gyrations until they were lost in the night sky. For an instant, each stream would flicker, divert itself inwards. With a feeling of dread, he realised that there was a rhythm to those diversions, a horrible suggestiveness. It was like watching the pulsations of a beating heart.
‘Vanhal!’ Lothar cried out. The peasant necromancer had been cagey, dispatching his disciple on a meaningless errand before beginning some forbidden rite he wished to keep secret! Bitterly, the baron reflected on his foolish appreciation of the power he had evoked at Hel Fenn. Beside this, such magic was nothing.
‘Vanhal!’ he shouted once more, making no effort to hide the anger in his tone. The fallen priest had played him for a fool with his talk of enemies and armies. As though any foe would be so mad as to challenge the necromancer in his citadel.
‘Vanhal!’ Lothar roared a third time. There was hesitancy in his voice now. With a full appreciation for the power of this site, he wondered if even Vanhal could manipulate such energies. Perhaps his master had been too ambitious, had initiated an invocation he couldn’t control? The pleasure of seeing Vanhal brought low was tempered by the realisation that if he expired, his secrets would pass with him. Having had a taste of such power, to lose all chance of making it his own was a horror too ghastly to contemplate.
Panicked, Lothar mounted the scaffolding and ascended the rickety framework. For the first time he realised that none of the workers were around. The absence of Vanhal’s undead gave the baron pause. Where had they gone? Had they slipped past the necromancer’s control and simply wandered off, or had they been consumed by the magic he had unleashed? It was a terrifying prospect, to be annihilated by a surge of undirected vibration, consumed so completely that not even dust should remain.
Hundreds of feet above, Lothar could see the pulsing streams of light bowing inwards. Again, he could not shake the impression of a beating heart. There was only one heart that could have provoked such resonance. Whether he was still in control or not, Vanhal was alive.
How long he could remain that way was something Lothar didn’t know. No man could tap into such forces, channel them through mere flesh and spirit for long. Whatever his purpose, Vanhal had to be restrained before the power he had unleashed consumed him.
The altar of bones rotated upon a nimbus of wailing emanations far above the framework of Vanhaldenschlosse’s highest tower. The stone roof below was rendered almost transparent by the phantom harmonies, its substance taking upon itself something of the spectral essence of the forces rushing through it.
Lothar could feel his own flesh fading, evaporating into an ethereal shadow. Only by fierce exertion of his will was he able to maintain his grip on corporeal substance. As he climbed onto the half-circle of the roof, he stared up at Vanhal’s levitating altar above him, at the grotesquery of the necromancer himself, his black robes whipping about him as daemon winds clawed at his spirit. He stood in a nimbus of ghostly fog that blazed with fearful fires. Green ghoul-lights blazed from Vanhal’s eyes, ghostly flashes of energy rippled from his outstretched arms. With each pulsation of the energies rising from the menhirs, the necromancer appeared to flicker, to phase out of reality only to reappear before he could entirely fade away.
Vanhal was doing more than simply harnessing the magic rushing up through his tower – he was becoming one with that power! As impossible as such a thing might seem, when Lothar lifted his gaze to stare at the sky above the skeletal altar, he received an even bigger shock. The stars were aligned differently than they had been when he entered the tower. Somehow, Vanhal had caused the castle to slip through time, to fall into the vacuity between seconds and emerge in another. In the rest of the world, the stars sat in the month of Vorhexen. But the tower had leaped ahead. It existed in the dark hours of Hexentag!
The baron nearly lost his concentration, that fragile link that kept his flesh from fading into a ghostly vapour. The enormity of such a feat was beyond anything he had believed possible. Yet there must be some motive behind Vanhal’s act, some dire need that had pushed him to such a supreme and dangerous evocation.
Hexentag! That was the answer. The aethyric current flowing through the tower would be even more potent in the haunted hours of that ominous day. Yet the answer itself begged another question: why did Vanhal need all this arcane energy?
Casting his gaze away from the stars and the necromancer’s altar, Lothar looked down to the plain far below. At once he saw the massed formations of Vanhal’s undead legions, arrayed across the landscape like chessmen on a board. The size of that army would have impressed him had it not been for the still greater host scurrying towards the silent ranks of walking dead. Skaven! The verminous Underfolk of myth turned into hideous reality. This was the enemy Vanhal had tried to prepare for, but the monsters had come too soon. Their multitudes were innumerable. They were a chittering colossus descending upon the puny army arrayed against them.
Lothar could hear the first bestial shrieks as the ratmen struck the front ranks of zombies, hacking and clawing their way through decayed flesh and bleached bone with murderous fury. The undead tried to repel the vermin, but their numbers were too small to hold the foe back.
‘The gnawing rat will not befoul the dream,’ Vanhal’s words slashed across Lothar’s ears like a knife. ‘Not this time,’ the necromancer vowed, his eyes blazing more brightly.
‘Nothing can stand against that,’ Lothar protested, waving his hand at the swarming vermin below. ‘You must use your magic to make the tower disappear!’
‘I have used my magic,’ Vanhal hissed. ‘But it is the skaven who will disappear.’ The necromancer raised his hand, ribbons of spectral light rippling along his fingers, making the bones glow beneath his wizened flesh.
Lothar followed the pointing finger of his master. What colour was left in his pale countenance drained away as a gargantuan shape soared down from the heavens, blotting out those incongruous stars. As it descended towards the tower, the luminescent tendrils of power revealed its monstrous form, a scaly leviathan of muscle and sinew, of decayed flesh and exposed bone. Tattered pinions held it aloft, fanning a necrotic stench across
the tower. A great tail undulated behind it, the forked tip flashing through the streamers of aethyric vibration. No face, no matter how horrific, could have matched the grisly stump of neck that projected from the gigantic shoulders. The head had been cut clean away long ago, leaving only a gaping wound dark with clotted blood and wriggling worms.
It was a dragon. Vanhal had used his magic to raise the bones of a dragon as one of his undead slaves! This was the weapon the necromancer’s sorcery had drawn to destroy the skaven horde.
‘The most recently killed of dragonkind,’ Vanhal pronounced. ‘He will be your warhorse. Strike down the skaven. Leave none alive.’
As he stared up at the zombie dragon, Lothar almost felt sorry for those slinking creatures down below.
Chapter XV
Altdorf
Brauzeit, 1114
Kreyssig turned away from the empty throne and slowly descended the steps leading up to the dais. He ignored the pair of armoured Kaiserknecht who flanked the throne Boris had left behind when he retreated from the plague-stricken city. For their part, the knights did their best to ignore him too. Their grand master had made no secret of his displeasure over taking orders from a commoner.
Still, whatever his feelings, Grand Master Leiber had too many ideas about honour and duty to refuse Kreyssig’s commands. So long as Kreyssig wore the regalia of the Emperor’s chosen Protector, he could depend upon the unwavering loyalty of the Kaiserknecht – whatever he asked them to do.
Half a dozen of the armoured warriors came trooping into the Winter Audience Hall, their steel clattering as they filed through the frescoed entry and passed beneath the magnificent lattice of silver and ivory that hovered between the ornamental pillars lining the entry. Between them, looking dishevelled and unruly, the left side of his face purple with a fresh bruise, Duke Vidor loped into the hall, his arms laden down with iron manacles and a great collar locked about his neck.
A thin smile formed on Kreyssig’s face as he observed Vidor’s humiliation. There was something supremely satisfying about seeing a noble brought low, humbled and humiliated as they humbled and humiliated the thousands of peasants they exploited. Given the chance, he would see all of the blue-bloods in chains, dragged through the streets like cattle before being strung up by their perfumed necks.
Only for a moment did Kreyssig relish that vision of an Empire free from the parasitic nobility, free from the tyranny of breeding and pedigree. An Empire where even a mere peasant might become ruler if he were cautious enough. Ruthless enough.
For the moment, Kreyssig had to balance the two, caution and ruthlessness. The nobles were too entrenched to depose. Nor was it desirous to discard them out of hand. Not when they might still prove useful.
‘Leave us,’ Kreyssig told the duke’s escort. The knights saluted stiffly, then filed from the room. Kreyssig turned his head, repeated the order to the Kaiserknecht beside the throne. Without a word, the armoured warriors withdrew.
Kreyssig waited until the knights were gone before approaching the shackled duke. ‘Now we can speak more freely,’ he said.
Vidor’s face contorted into an expression of withering contempt. ‘If you expect me to beg, you may as well just kill me now. I’ll not grovel before a peasant.’
‘If I wanted to hear you beg, I would never have brought you to the palace,’ Kreyssig said. ‘You would have gone to the Courts of Justice with all the other profiteering traitors.’
‘What happened?’ Vidor scoffed. ‘Couldn’t your Kaiserjaeger fabricate enough evidence for you? Or did somebody warn you that you have already gone too far? The nobility won’t sit idle while you cart them off on trumped up allegations of treason!’
‘I have only purged the Imperial court of a few villains who were seeking to aggrandize themselves while their liege lords are away,’ Kreyssig said, though he made little effort to put any conviction in his voice. ‘I don’t think Altdorf will miss a dozen or so grasping counts and barons, do you?’
Before Duke Vidor could answer, Kreyssig was walking back towards the Emperor’s throne. Vidor gasped in shock as the Protector sat in the Imperial seat. Kreyssig smiled at the noble’s offended dignity. Deftly working his fingers under the throne’s armrest, he pulled at a concealed knob.
Vidor’s shock was redoubled when the entire throne began to pivot, swinging out from the dais and exposing a flight of stairs concealed beneath the throne. ‘The entire palace is a maze of hidden corridors and secret passages. Prince Sigdan was fortunate to catch Emperor Boris in one of the few chambers without a hidden exit.’ Kreyssig laughed. ‘Actually, the Harmony Salon did have a hollow wall, but the Emperor had it filled in because he felt it was detrimental to the acoustics.’
The commander rose and stepped away from the throne, posting himself at the head of the hidden stair. Vidor watched him with growing nervousness, tempted to bolt and run while Kreyssig was seemingly distracted. The indignity of such a retreat stifled such intentions. He might cower before an Emperor, but he would be damned if he were going to flee from a peasant.
Kreyssig bent over, reaching down into the hidden stairway. A slim hand, gloved in purple, reached up from the passage beneath the throne, accepting the commander’s waiting grip. Soon he was escorting the Baroness von den Linden, svelte in a close-fitting gown the colour of ambergris, down the steps of the dais. Behind them, the Imperial throne rotated back to its former position.
‘What… what is that… witch…’ Vidor gasped, fear for the first time unseating the enforced calmness demanded by his noble bearing.
‘Have a care, Vidor,’ Kreyssig snarled. ‘It is by her ladyship’s grace that you are here and not down in the Dragon’s Hole.’
The baroness stepped away from Kreyssig as she reached the floor. Stroking the kitten she held in the crook of her arm, she approached the chained Vidor. The aristocrat began to shiver as the witch drew near, Auernheimer’s story about summoned daemons rising unbidden in his memory.
‘He will be more useful to us here,’ the baroness declared. Her gaze was cold as she locked eyes with Vidor. ‘Having failed once, he won’t be so foolish as to move against us a second time.’ She wagged a finger at the shackles and collar. ‘I think those are unnecessary. You must speak to your Kaiserknecht about their zeal.’
Kreyssig reached into a pocket, removing a large brass key. He contemplated it for a moment. ‘I should scold them for their laxity,’ he observed, tossing the key at Vidor’s feet. ‘It doesn’t appear they broke any bones when they collected his grace.’
Vidor stared in confusion from the key to Kreyssig and then to the baroness, wondering what sort of trap they had set for him.
The witch noted his hesitancy. ‘There is no trick, your grace,’ she said, demonstrating the claim by leaning down and retrieving the key, slipping it between Vidor’s fingers. ‘Adolf has demonstrated his reach. This little display was arranged to impress upon you that, whatever his parentage, you are subject to his authority.’
‘My Kaiserjaeger weren’t able to find that fanatic you set after us,’ Kreyssig grumbled. ‘Otherwise you’d have a much more memorable display to impress you.’ His voice dipped, losing its element of forced charm. ‘When I find him, I’ll be sure to send the pieces to you.’
Vidor fumbled at the lock to his shackles, still expecting some kind of trick. When the chains fell from his wrists, there was a look of disbelief in his eyes. Quickly, he repeated the procedure with the heavy collar.
‘That should convince you of our sincerity,’ the baroness said.
Vidor looked from her to Kreyssig, uncertain which of them was in control. Which of them he needed to placate. ‘What about the others?’ he asked.
‘I told you, they are profiteering traitors,’ Kreyssig declared. ‘They will be publicly tried and executed. Their titles will be abolished and their holdings forfeit to the crown.’ Again, he reached into his pocket, removi
ng a ruby-encrusted signet ring. He scrutinized it for a moment, before returning his gaze to the duke. ‘Baron von Forgach’s lands in the Ostermark have been something you’ve wanted for a long time.’ With a last look at the signet, he tossed the ring to Vidor. The duke wasn’t surprised when he saw the von Forgach coat of arms emblazoned on the jewel.
‘Von Forgach was a traitor,’ Kreyssig stated boldly, ‘leaving all of his lands to the crown for redisposition.’
‘You have proof of this?’ Vidor asked.
Kreyssig laughed darkly. ‘The best. A signed confession.’
Duke Vidor grimaced at the peasant’s lack of candour. Just the same, he drew a merely ornamental ring from one of his fingers and slipped the signet in its place. ‘Do not think you can buy my loyalty.’
Kreyssig’s grim humour expressed itself in a grotesque smile. ‘If I cannot buy it, then I will compel it,’ he warned. ‘When you say that there would be an uproar if I were to try and prosecute you, it was something that had occurred to me. I wouldn’t presume to try such a thing. Not at all. If it comes to it, you will be dragged before the proctors of the Temple of Sigmar and tried for…’ Kreyssig paused, looking at Baroness von den Linden.
‘You will be arrested for heresy, your grace,’ the witch said. There was a dark gleam in her eyes as she added, ‘Anyone can be made to sign anything given the right incentive.’
‘And even your staunchest supporters will desert you if it is the Temple of Sigmar, not Protector Kreyssig, who prosecutes you,’ Kreyssig stated.
