by C. L. Werner
Cursing under his breath, Kreyssig spurred his warhorse towards her. ‘Are you mad?’ he growled, trying to catch her reins. ‘Everyone will see. Everyone will know!’
The witch pulled away from his approach. She favoured Kreyssig with that familiar coy smile. ‘Let them see,’ she said. ‘After I save this city, not the Grand Theogonist himself will dare touch me.’
Rushing masses of peasants came charging across the square, eager to come to the aid of their miraculous saviour. Savagely, they cut down the few skaven who had escaped the holocaust. Somewhere, someone gave voice to a shout, a cry that became a frenzied chorus: ‘The Lady of Sigmar!’
Kreyssig could only stare in wonder as the baroness rode towards the flames. He could see the skaven beyond that wall of fire, frantically trying to reload their catapult. He saw their spark-mouthed sorcerer threatening and shouting at them. The jewel-eyed rodent glanced back, flinching as he saw the glowing witch approach. Self-preservation overwhelmed his lust for victory. With a loud yelp, he leaped from his palanquin and scurried off down the street.
The skaven operating the catapult weren’t so fortunate. Raising both her arms, thrusting her palms in the direction of the strange siege engine, the baroness invoked a spell of devastating potency. The orb being loaded into the catapult shattered as it was being set into the bucket. The rampant energies flashed into a blinding coruscation. Other flashes of light followed the first, one after the other, as steady as footfalls. The detonation of the first sphere had caught the ones behind it, igniting them inside their wooden boxes.
Kreyssig could only marvel at the devastation, the utter decimation of the skaven. With her magic, Baroness von den Linden had broken the back of the skaven assault.
As he was considering what that meant, what the chorus of shouts from the mob might mean, Kreyssig was suddenly seized and pulled from his saddle. He crashed to the ground, landing on his side in a painful sprawl.
He expected to feel the fangs of a ratman at his throat; instead, he saw a man in the hooded habit of a monk looming over him. ‘You brought the witch here!’ his attacker accused. ‘You brought her here to deceive the people with her sorcery! But Solkan is not fooled so easily…’
In those murderous tones, Kreyssig recognised the voice of the witch-taker. Once before the fanatic had tried to kill him. Then he had been thwarted by his own penchant for ritual and the timely intervention of the skaven. This time, Kreyssig knew neither factor would sway the killer’s hand.
Instead, rescue came from the most unexpected source Kreyssig would have imagined. As Auernheimer brought his sword arm up to deliver the killing blow, he was himself struck from behind. The witch-taker crumpled, the back of his skull shattered like an egg. Bits of the Solkanite’s brain dripped down the jewelled haft of Thorgrim. Grand Theogonist Gazulgrund stared down at the man he had just rescued, a strange look in his gaze.
‘You rescued me,’ Kreyssig said, not daring to move while the priest held the mattock over him. The nimbus of divine energy was fading from the Grand Theogonist, but there was still a terrible power in those eyes.
‘It was the will of Sigmar,’ Gazulgrund said. ‘You brought relief to the temple. You saved the house of Sigmar from profanation.’
The priest’s voice was far from grateful. Kreyssig felt his spine tingle when he noticed that Gazulgrund’s awful stare wasn’t directed at him. He was looking past the prostrate Protector. He was looking at the cheering mob surrounding Baroness von den Linden. Listening to those blasphemous chants.
‘I saved you because you are the only one who can do what needs to be done,’ Gazulgrund said. ‘You are the one who can save the people from delusion.’
Kreyssig guessed what the priest expected. His answer was a sneer. ‘She is my ally and my mistress, why would I side against her?’
The Grand Theogonist impiously kicked the corpse of Auernheimer. ‘As long as she lives, you will never be free of such fanatics. The cult of Solkan, the Inquisition of Verena, even the zealots of my own Temple. They will not abide such overt witchery. They will not rest until it – and those tainted by it – have been destroyed.’ He gestured with Thorgrim at the cheering mob. ‘Today the people cheer, but tomorrow they will remember the holy manifestation of Sigmar. A true miracle leaves its mark on a man’s soul. Sorcery, even employed benevolently, leaves only nightmares.’
Gazulgrund’s shoulders sagged, the great weight of Thorgrim causing him to hunch over. Whatever sacred power had briefly manifested within him was draining away. Still there lingered that terrible power in his eyes, in his voice. ‘Choose your side well, Protector. You may either profit by what has happened here today, or become a victim of it.’
Kreyssig watched the priest slowly withdraw towards the temple, his last words echoing through his mind. He turned his head, studying the mob, seeing them cheer and praise Baroness von den Linden. To them, the witch was nothing less than a living saint, a miracle worker. The Temple of Sigmar wouldn’t dare refute such beliefs because to do so would be to admit that sorcery had succeeded where the power of their god had failed.
No, the Sigmarites wouldn’t dare act against her now.
Middenheim
Ulriczeit, 1118
The Ulricsmund had been spared the worst of the skaven assault. The Teutogen Guard and the wolf-priests themselves had proven more than the pillaging verminkin wanted to contend with. With their tyrannical leader rampaging across the Eastgate, the ratmen had simply bypassed the Ulricsmund to find easier prey.
Avoided by the skaven, the district had become a sanctuary for the people of Middenheim. Refugees clustered in the rectories and barracks, filled the gardens and sacred grove. The sanctuary of the great temple itself was packed with ragged groups of humanity, noble and peasant alike. In the face of annihilation, distinctions of blood and breeding had been forgotten. Westerland burghers sat beside Talabecland farmers, Middenland foresters huddled against Drakwald craftsmen, all united in their despair and fear.
That sense of doom had started to lift when messengers arrived describing the rout of the skaven horde in the Eastgate. Dread descended once more when Prince Mandred came marching into the temple, battered and bloodied, looking as though he had clawed his way from his own grave. Behind the grim prince, Grand Master Vitholf and Beck carried the body of Graf Gunthar between them. A sombre procession of dwarfs and men followed after the graf, the banners they carried not held aloft in triumph but lowered in a gesture of mourning.
Among the refugees gathered in the temple were those who had left the Middenpalaz, sent to the safety of the Ulricsmund before Graf Gunthar embarked upon his desperate sally against the skaven. When they saw their liege lying lifeless in the arms of the knights, a great wail of agony rose from the royal retainers and servants.
Only one among the palace refugees had eyes for son rather than father. Lady Mirella stirred from her bench, her heart breaking when she saw the anguish on Mandred’s face, the crippling pain in his every step. She started to rise, to rush to the prince, to offer him what relief it was in her ability to bestow.
‘He will not welcome a friend right now,’ Brother Richter spoke into her ear. Mirella turned towards the Sigmarite, hurt and confusion in her eyes. The priest bowed his head, and then continued in a sympathetic tone. ‘He seeks a miracle. Comes here to beg before his god. Do not intrude upon his sorrow.’ Richter gazed sadly at the sombre procession making its way towards the altar. ‘The last ember of hope must burn itself to ashes.’
Tears were in Mirella’s eyes. ‘Why?’ she asked Richter.
The priest’s gaze became distant, his voice a mere whisper. ‘Because it is on the anvil of pain that the gods forge heroes.’
Mandred was only dimly aware of the multitude crammed into the temple. The sound of wailing, the sobs of despair and alarm, these reached him as though from a great distance. Even the altar and the Eternal Flame seemed hazy
and indistinct. When Ar-Ulric came bustling down from the pulpit whence he had been addressing the assembly, the prince could discern only an old man in wolfskin robes, his mind incapable of reconciling the sight with his memories of Ulric’s high priest.
There was only one thing that was real to the prince. That was the near-lifeless body being carried behind him. In his mind, he thought he could hear the beating of the graf’s heart, a dull drum-like rhythm that grew weaker with every breath. His father’s fate was all that mattered to him now. Not Middenheim, not the people, not even the poison rushing through his own veins. Again and again, as he limped through the sanctuary, he begged the gods to take him and spare his father.
If the gods heard, if Ulric was listening, they gave no sign.
‘Your grace,’ Ar-Ulric was speaking, clutching at Mandred’s arm. ‘You are injured!’ The old priest turned, shouting across the temple, for the first time in his long years forgetful of decorum within the sanctuary. He shouted for those wolf-priests versed in the healing arts, for the handful of herbalists and doktors who had trickled into the Ulricsmund amongst the other refugees.
Mandred pulled free from Ar-Ulric’s grip, continued to hobble down the aisle. He would reach the altar, abase himself before Ulric, offer that last flicker of his own life in return for his father. Nothing would sway him from his purpose.
Vitholf and Beck spoke with Ar-Ulric as they passed him, bearing the graf towards the altar. Mandred knew they were talking about him, explaining that grief had disturbed the mind of their prince. They enjoined Ar-Ulric to get his healers and to likewise bring some of his Teutogen Guard to restrain the prince. As servants of Ulric, they were beyond the prince’s authority, a duty which bound both of the knights to follow Mandred’s commands regardless of the madness behind them.
There was no anger in Mandred’s heart when he heard his subjects speak of him in such manner. They were concerned that he was neglecting his own welfare. In their minds, they had already abandoned Graf Gunthar to Morr’s gardens of death. The prince would not.
The altar loomed before him. Mandred dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor. An inarticulate sob wracked his abused body as he cried out to Ulric. There were no words in it. There was no need for them. Ulric knew what Mandred prayed for and what he was prepared to offer in exchange.
A shriek pierced the solemnity that had fallen upon the temple, soon followed by other cries of fear and horror. Mandred raised his head just in time to see the cloaked shapes that dropped down from the beams overhead. Verminous voices chittered in obscene delight as three black-furred skaven lashed out with dripping blades, cutting down wolf-priests and refugees with abandon. Mercilessly, the monsters fought their way towards the altar.
Deathmaster Silke and his apprentices, the master killers of Clan Eshin, had come to avenge their dead overlord and reclaim the honour of their murderous order.
Silke slashed down a knight who stood in his way, leaping over the sprawling man and lunging towards the altar in a seamless blur of lethal fury. His apprentices followed after him, keeping the way clear. One of them was borne down when he was set upon by Kurgaz Smallhammer, the dwarf’s brawny arms driving his warhammer into the beast’s spine. The other parried Grand Master Vitholf’s blade, struggling to hold the knight back.
Mandred rose to meet the Deathmaster. His weakened grip would never have drawn the sword hanging at his side, the blade Beck had given him as they withdrew from the Eastgate. The skaven assassin was beyond the swiftness of the most hale and hearty man. Silke would fall upon him before his hand even closed around the hilt.
A ragged, bleeding figure flung himself between the assassin and his prey. Exhibiting a sudden spark of vitality, a burst of unguessed strength, Graf Gunthar pulled free from Beck’s arms and propelled himself into Silke’s path. The Deathmaster’s sweeping blade hewed across the man’s chest instead of finding the neck of his son. The ratman blinked in disbelief at the unexpected intrusion that had cheated him of his intended prey.
In that instant, while Silke freed his poisoned dagger from the collapsing body of Graf Gunthar, Mandred freed his own sword from its scabbard. A brilliant light blazed from the edge of the blade as it was drawn. No common sword had Beck given to the prince, but no less a weapon than Legbiter, the runefang of the Teutogens!
Deathmaster Silke cringed before the enchanted sword. All skavendom had lived in terror of Warmonger Vecteek, and here was the sword that had killed that dreadful tyrant. An emotion that the Nightlord of Clan Eshin had tried to torture and burn from the glands of the Deathmaster returned to assail the ratman’s pounding heart. Fear, so long rejected and denied, came flooding back into Silke’s body.
The surviving apprentice saw the change in Silke’s posture, the bristling of the assassin’s fur, the weak flick of the killer’s tail. Nartik’s lips curled back in a snarl as he saw fear overcome his hated master. In a contemptuous display of skill, Nartik ended his duel with Vitholf, springing past the grand master’s guard to slash the muscles of his sword arm and leave the limb hanging limp and useless at his side.
Before another opponent could close upon him, Nartik dashed towards the altar where Silke was turning to flee from Mandred. Chittering malignantly, Nartik dived at the combatants. His poisoned blade flashed out, slicing through flesh and bone.
Deathmaster Silke squealed as he crumpled to the floor, the tendons in his leg slashed by Nartik’s blade. The treacherous apprentice glared at him for an instant, then went racing away, dodging past men and dwarfs as the fleet-footed killer made good his escape.
Mandred ignored the fleeing Nartik, intent only upon the sprawled Silke, the slayer of his father. The prone assassin lay limp and helpless as the prince stabbed down with Legbiter, driving the sword at the vermin’s back.
In a blur of motion, Silke rolled aside before Legbiter could strike him. The Deathmaster’s motion continued in a reverse twist that caught the edge of the blade in his cloak and wrenched it from Mandred’s weakened hands. At the same time, the skaven’s paw came sweeping out from beneath his leather tunic, flinging a clutch of ugly black throwing stars into the prince’s body.
Mandred crumpled atop the monster, sprawling across Silke before the Deathmaster could twist away. Every speck of his being cried out in pain, the venom tipping the edges of the stars adding to the poison already in his veins. Mandred was deaf to the misery of his flesh, hearkening only to the misery in his soul. Fiercely, he forced his hands to close about Silke’s throat, willed his numb fingers to tighten, to crush the life from the inhuman murderer.
Deathmaster Silke flailed beneath Mandred’s strangling hands. Twisting and rolling, the skaven threw his attacker to the ground, yet still the hands would not release their terrible grip. The ratman’s claws raked the prince’s body, his fangs closed upon his shoulder, yet still Mandred wouldn’t relent. All the strength in his battered frame was focused into the fingers clenched about Silke’s throat.
Men were rushing to help the prince now, shouting and roaring at the skaven pinned beneath him. Kurgaz kicked his boot into the side of Silke’s head, trying to force the skaven to loosen his fangs. Desperate, the Deathmaster twisted from his tormentors, rolling himself and the prince across the floor. Their bodies glanced from the altar, bounced across the patch of bare earth beyond it.
A gasp of horror rose from every man, woman and child gathered in the temple as the two struggling combatants rolled into the blazing fire of the Sacred Flame.
For an instant, the flame burned brighter, blinding the panicked observers. Then they could make out the shadowy shapes of Mandred and Silke lying within the pillar of fire. The prince’s hands were yet wrapped about the ratman’s throat, even in the midst of the Sacred Flame.
As the stunned assembly watched, Silke’s body began to disintegrate, charred into ash by the spectral energies of the fire. Soon there was nothing left of the Deathmas
ter.
Silence dominated the temple as the remaining combatant emerged from the midst of the Sacred Flame. Where the fire had obliterated Silke entirely, it hadn’t so much as scorched the tattered cloak hanging from the prince’s shoulders. When he stepped from the flame, Mandred’s step wasn’t the limp of a cripple, but the steady march of a conqueror. There was no blood on his face, no wounds marring his body. An almost ethereal glow burned behind his skin, slowly fading as he approached the stone altar.
It was Brother Richter who was the first to find his voice, the first to cry out in recognition of the miracle they had all witnessed. ‘Hail the Wolf of Sigmar!’ the priest shouted, his words booming like thunder within the crowded temple. The cry was taken up by the multitude, shouted with the passion of a delivered people towards their saviour.
Only Mirella was silent. She alone looked beyond the miracle, looked beyond the triumphant saviour. She looked at the man himself, the man who didn’t hear the cheering voices, the man who didn’t look at the jubilant throng.
Mandred stared down at his father’s corpse sprawled before the altar. As he gazed into Graf Gunthar’s cold eyes, he felt a bitterness boil up inside of him. Why had the gods refused his prayer? Why him and not his father?
The answer seemed to shine in his father’s dead gaze, in the beauteous peace that had settled upon his face.
The son’s prayer had been rejected.
The father’s had not.
Mandred looked up as he found Beck approaching him. The knight bowed and offered him Legbiter once more. Solemnly, the prince took up his sword, the sword which was now his right to bear as Graf of Middenheim. Holding the Runefang aloft, he faced the cheering crowd and this time he heard their adoration.
‘Hail the Wolf of Sigmar!’
Epilogue
