“I thank you, thane,” said Thorrik, and nodded again to the two dwarfs before turning and marching from the room. The door shut solidly behind him.
The witchfinder general Albrecht Horscht passed back and forth before the open fire. There was a fresh wound on the side of his face that ran from his ear to the side of his mouth, red-raw and stitched closed. Still, blood and pus wept from the painful wound. If anything, Udo thought, the pain of the injury merely made the witchfinder general more irritable and caustic than usual. He was a tall, white-haired individual, and his ruthless ways made him both feared and respected throughout the church of Sigmar and beyond. Thousands of heretics had been burnt at the stake at his command, and with spike and maul he had received the confession of hundreds of witches before executing them in cleansing fire.
“So, what do you think, revered Sigmund?” he said, speaking out of one side of his mouth to avoid reopening his wound further. “Is she truthful, or is she an agent-pretender of the enemy? Will she bring ruin down upon us if she lives?”
Sigmund, the holy patriarch of the temple of Sigmar at Black Fire, furrowed his brow and scratched at the whiskers on his chin. He was an elderly man, yet was still a powerfully built warrior priest. He lay on his pallet, with bandages wrapped tightly around his chest. There was a slight hint of blood on these wrappings, and a pair of gentle Sisters of Shallya fussed over him. He had come very close to death during the battle against the greenskins, and they tutted and glared at the two witch hunters for disturbing their patient, unfazed by their grim reputations.
“Leave me, please, sisters,” said the elderly priest, his voice strained and ragged. With a reproachful expression upon her face, one of the women opened her mouth to protest. “Please, Sister Katrin,” he repeated, wincing under her withering gaze. In any other circumstances Udo would have found it almost comical that this powerful priest, a veteran of hundreds of holy battles, could be told what to do by a woman.
The priestess, her raven hair streaked with silver, swung towards Grunwald and his superior and levelled a finger towards them. “I’ll give you ten minutes,” she snapped. “No longer. He needs his rest.” With that, the two Sisters of Shallya left the room. Sigmund gave a long sigh.
“I am not sure,” he admitted finally. “The girl—Annaliese, is it not? I am yet to be convinced either way. I need more time for communion with Sigmar, to ask his guidance.”
“I saw her myself, wielding a hammer of the saints against the foe,” said Grunwald. “I felt the light of Sigmar was with her.”
“It could have been a trick of the enemy,” hissed the witchfinder general. “If she recovers, which is doubtful, I say that we submit her to trial.”
“That will be the end of her, whatever the outcome,” said the old priest.
“And if she is innocent, then she will go to be with holy Sigmar, her name honoured and cleared of wrong-doing,” said Horscht, shrugging. “A truly devout woman of the temple could hope for no more.”
“To subject her to trial now will be demoralising,” said Sigmund. “Initiate Alexis is not the only one to be convinced of her saintliness—half the temple believes that she is a holy warrior of Sigmar. If you subject her to trial, they will lose faith. They will lose hope.”
“Then they are not truly devout,” snarled Horscht.
The old priest sighed, closing his eyes. “Many of my warrior priests believe in her,” he said with a tired voice. “You would suggest that they are not truly devout?”
Horscht spun on his heel and began pacing back and forth once more.
“The histories tell of the Sisters of Sigmar of the cursed city that Sigmar smote beneath his hammer. They tell us that he grew angry with their temple and did strike it down with his twin-tailed, fiery comet of vengeance.”
Grunwald frowned and shifted his feet. He had read that the temple of the Sisters of Sigmar had been the only thing to remain untouched by the comet, but he had no wish to contradict his superior.
“If we let her live without trial,” continued Horscht, “do we not risk harkening our own doom? Might Sigmar not be displeased to let her be proclaimed as a warrior sister of his church?”
“I have no intention of proclaiming her anything,” wheezed Sigmund, his eyes angry. “I merely suggest that you stay your hand for now. If she lives, then you can watch over her like a hawk—if you see anything that could make her claim doubtful, then she can be put to trial.”
“To be fair to the girl, I do not believe she has claimed anything,” said Grunwald. Horscht scowled at him.
“It matters not if she verbally claims it!” he said. “The fact that by her actions others claim it is enough.”
Grunwald nodded slowly, conceding the point.
“It is true that she fought with the hammer of saintly Brother Trenkner, long thought lost to us,” said Sigmund. “For five hundred years it has remained little more than a myth—it had long been said that brother Trenkner’s body lies entombed beneath the temple, but none have ever discovered its whereabouts. The fact that she fought with one of our ancient Brother’s weapons in her hand counts in her favour.”
“But how did she find it when none other, not even you, revered one, had been able to?” said Horscht, his voice accusing.
“She could have been guided to it by devilry, or by the restless dead.”
Sigmund scoffed at the remark. “Come, Brother Albrecht, such things could not come to pass within the walls of the temple.”
“The enemy had breached the temple when the initiate claims she discovered the hammer,” said Grunwald. “They smashed statues and breached the sanctity of our temple—could that not have allowed such witchcraft to be performed within its walls?”
Sigmund frowned, making the lines of his face deepen. “That is a possibility,” he admitted.
“Anyway,” said Horscht. “She is unlikely to survive the night, so this conversation may prove to be of little consequence. It may be that all we will need to decide is the manner of her burial—that of a saint, or as a devil.”
“We shall cross that bridge when we come to it,” said Sigmund.
On that note, the witch hunters took their leave, allowing the wounded patriarch to rest.
“How is she?” asked Katrin as she entered the small room. Annaliese lay beneath sheets heavy with perspiration. A young sister of the healing goddess of mercy knelt over the girl, cooling her forehead with a damp cloth. The hammer the girl had used to fight the greenskins lay upon the bedside table next to her. So she took up the path of the warrior, Katrin thought sadly.
“She is stable,” said the sister. “But I cannot yet say if she will live or not.”
Katrin smiled at the elf standing sentinel over Annaliese’s bed. He inclined his head slightly in response, and she shivered. He made her nervous with his cold demeanour and otherworldly distance. She knew that he made the other Sisters of Shallya uneasy as well, yet he had stood watching over the girl without sleep since she had been struck down. It was impossible to gauge his emotion, for his pale, thin face gave away nothing.
There was another in the room as well, a tall, powerfully built knight whose face was filled with concern.
“You should rest, sister,” he said to her. He was handsome, she saw. His face was strong, and his eyes clear and green. His hair was sandy blond and hung to his heavily armoured shoulders. Oh to be twenty years younger, she thought fleetingly.
“I will rest when there is none that need my care,” she said in reply.
“Then you will not be resting for a long time to come,” he noted.
Annaliese walked through a field of gold, the sun beating down on her skin, and she smiled. It was a radiant day, and she felt utterly content despite the roiling black clouds that were clawing across the sky to the north. Red lightning flashed in the gathering darkness, crackling across the sky.
The warmth began to seep from her body, and she shivered with a sudden chill. The sun had disappeared. Overhead, the writhin
g clouds were thickening. Annaliese hugged herself tightly as her bones were chilled. She felt pain then, and cried out.
She looked at the hammer held in her hands. It glowed with warm light, but it was nothing more than a spark in the overwhelming darkness swallowing the sky.
Annaliese opened her eyes with a shuddering gasp, and the pain of her wound crashed in on her. She saw concerned faces crowded around her, but she looked past them all at a figure standing apart from the others, and she smiled.
“She is delirious,” said a voice.
“I must go,” she said suddenly, struggling to rise. “The darkness is rising in the north! My place is there! It is His will!”
“Hush,” said a gentle voice, and she felt a cool hand on her forehead. She sank back into the bed sheets, feeling as though there were heavy weights that pulled her eyelids down.
“My place is in the north,” she muttered. “The griffon aflame. That is where I am bound.”
She felt the presence of Sigmar with her then, and warmth flowed through her.
Annaliese sank into a deep and dreamless sleep, a smile upon her face.
She had a purpose.
BOOK TWO
The Northlands are in ruin. Ostland is overrun and will fall any day. Its lands are rife with enemy forces, and they have taken control of the north bank of the Talabec River. They push into Talabecland, though our defences are holding there thus far.
I have received little word from Elector Hertwig of the Ostermark, besieged as he is in Bechafen. If the Ostermark falls, then the Empire is wide open and vulnerable—the enemy will be able to strike at the rear of the armies defending the Talabec, overwhelming them for they cannot hold against two fronts. Once they fall, the enemy will march into the very heart of the Empire, and will be within striking range of Altdorf itself. I dread the day that such news is brought to me. I pray to Sigmar that the Ostermark holds.
The plague has claimed great swathes of the Empire, entire towns and villages fallen beneath its spell. These places are overrun with blood-frenzied degenerate beings—the enemy is turning our own people against each other with its sorcery. It is certain now that this sickness has been spread by agents of Chaos. The Order of the Griffon is vigilant, and is hunting down the perpetrators—but the damage has already been done.
Word has come from the High King of the dwarfs that the Everpeak itself is besieged, a disastrous turn of events for we can expect no aid against the despoilers of the north from our mountainous allies while their own kingdom is so beset.
A feeling of dread has descended on the populace and our armies, and many of the electors have succumbed to hopelessness. This cannot be allowed to continue, for all the Empire has is the resolve of its people.
This is indeed a dark era. I pray that I have the strength to maintain control.
K.F.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Udo Grunwald had seen many strange and terrifying sights in his years as a soldier and a witch hunter. He had borne witness to scenes of madness and bloodshed, had seen foul magick performed that twisted the essence of reality, and had seen men possessed by daemons. But nothing prepared him for the sight of the hissing, steaming monstrosity that rolled inexorably forward as it passed through the arched entrance into the massive stronghold that was the Grimbeard Station.
“Lady of mercy,” swore Grunwald. Annaliese was equally awed by the beast that approached.
As they marched through Black Fire Pass en route to Grimbeard, across earth on which Sigmar himself had walked, he had begun to assess the girl. She seemed pure enough on first impressions, though he knew that such things were often carefully feigned masks. These thoughts slipped away as he gaped at the monstrous machine before them.
Only the elf, who Grunwald had learnt was named Eldanair, seemed unimpressed—he watched the proceedings with a look of distaste on his long, pale face, and held a section of his cloak over his mouth and nose to block out the acrid smoke. Though Grunwald knew that Eldanair had no knowledge of the long argument that had taken place for the dwarfs to even consider allowing the elf within Grimbeard, he was irritated by his reaction to this wonder of the dwarfs.
The trio stood with their backs up against the smooth stone wall as the steaming behemoth came closer. The platform was a hive of activity, as dwarf engineers and workers bustled to and fro, but the witch hunter’s eyes were fixed on the colossal machine as it drew to a halt, steam and smoke billowing from its iron-encased belly.
Borne upon dozens of steel wheels, guided upon massive metal tracks fixed to the ground, the steam-powered machine was a riot of deafening noise and motion. Pistons hissed super-heated steam as they rose and fell, and huge gears and levers rotated and clicked as they moved. Smoke, black and sooty, spewed from the four chimney stacks on the top of the ironclad body of the beast. Whistles blew painful blasts as they vented steam, and bells rang as mechanical hammers struck them.
The circular front of the mechanical engine was dominated by a metal-bearded ancestor face taller than a man, the image painstakingly inlaid with criss-crossing lines of gold and bronze. Each turning of the massive machine’s wheels was accompanied by a deep rhythmic sound like the breathing of some ancient forge-god, and dozens of coupling rods hissed and screamed as they rose and fell.
With a screech of protesting metal, the giant beast slowed, and Grunwald was enveloped in a cloud of black smoke. He coughed, blinking tears away as ash and soot assailed his eyes. The laboured breathing of the machine stopped altogether, replaced by a deep exhalation of venting steam. When the smoke cleared, he saw that there were soot-covered dwarfs swarming all over the cabin of the engine, oiling levers and gears and ensuring everything was in correct, working order.
Huge crane-structures swung above the snaking carriage behind the engine that was still exhaling steam, and a huge quantity of what looked like coal was dropped into an open tray. A flexible hose the width of a man’s body was manoeuvred into position, its metal clamps fixed onto the curving body of the engine, as water began to pump into the belly of the beast. Steam rose into the air, and the beast seemed to hiss in contentment as its thirst was quenched.
Grunwald had of course heard of the wonders created by the School of Engineers in Nuln, but according to Thorrik, the skills of the Empire’s finest engineers paled in comparison to those of even the lowliest dwarf apprentice. Seeing this monstrous machine, he could well believe the dwarf’s claim.
There were engines powered by steam and fire within the lands of men—twelve mighty steam tanks protected by thick sheets of metal and kitted out with dangerous experimental technologies, steam powered cannons and such—but even they were no comparison to this behemoth, for it dwarfed them in size. This titanic creation that was able to journey through the heart of the mountains to link the dwarf holds was truly immense. It was easily the height of a two-storey building, and the engine-carriage itself was over fifty yards in length. Hitched behind this hissing engine were six carriages—it was a long caravan train made of metal, pulled by a fire-breathing beast of burden of immense power and strength.
“Behold the wonder of Grimgrandel,” said the young apprentice engineer who had been assigned as the humans’ guide and chaperone, pride in his thickly accented voice. He was clearly pleased at the open-mouthed astonishment that the humans were showing.
“I have never seen anything like it,” said Grunwald eventually. The apprentice snorted.
“And nor would you have,” he said. “There is nothing in the world that compares to Grimgrandel—and certainly not in the lands of men!”
The elf had a dark look of distaste and loathing on his face and he brushed at the soot on his clothes and long black hair, in a futile effort to remove the black marks. The dwarfs bustling around the group gave the elf dark looks, muttering under their breath.
The elf seemed to have adopted an air of superiority and he looked around with his delicate nose turned up in repugnance to the goings on. He stuck close to Annaliese, and
his eyes flicked around warily towards any who approached too close to her. A strange girl, he thought, to inspire loyalty in such a disparate group.
The elf was clearly protective of her, even though he was unable to speak Reikspiel, and the folk in the Temple of Sigmar had clearly adopted her as their own—they had showered her with gifts that they could ill afford upon her departure from the temple. She had blushed and refused many of the gifts as impractical for travel—but the clothes she now wore were gifts that she had been grateful to accept. She barely resembled the rural serving girl that she had been—it was as though she had thrown away her past and reforged her image after her near-fatal injuries.
She had shorn away her flowing blonde hair and she now wore it at a more practical shoulder-length. Outfitted from the armoury of the temple itself on the instruction of the old patriarch, Sigmund, she wore a long dress of chainmail beneath a heavy robe of red and cream. This armour was heavy, but provided good protection, while still allowing great freedom of movement, and the girl was stronger than she looked. Her shoulders and neck were protected by a high gorget of stiffened leather and thick leather also protected her forearms. A twin-tailed comet medallion hung around her neck over her chainmail and robes, and the girl’s smooth-skinned face shone with devotion.
If she was false, then she was a damn fine actor, he would give her that. She spoke of Sigmar with believable reverence, and though it was clear her knowledge of the great deeds of the deity were limited, she was eager to learn.
“I am to come with you upon your pilgrimage to the north—to guard over you and to school you in the ways of our lord Sigmar,” he had lied, watching closely for any sign of fear or displeasure. She had beamed with joy at his proclamation.
[Age of Reckoning 01] - Empire in Chaos Page 14
