Ethrac nodded reluctantly, some of his agitation subsiding. ‘And there is Festus,’ he murmured. ‘We must not forget him.’
Otto released Ethrac. ‘It has been sewn up, tight as a burst stomach. The Leechlord is with us. Brine is with us, the Tallyman is with us. Stop worrying.’
Ethrac started to root around with his staff again, only half placated. ‘Festus has been working hard. I can smell it from here. Much joy, to see him again.’
Otto walked back over to the edge of the temple ruins. ‘Never forget, my favoured loin-brother, that we are three, and that we have not seen the finest of the Father’s plague-pots yet.’
As he spoke, a vast, rolling mountain of scabrous flesh lumbered into view. As tall as a guilder’s townhouse, the third of the triplets stomped past the teetering shell of the temple. His skin glowed a violent green, as if lit by weird lantern-light. Vast, muscle-thick arms hung, simian-like, from swollen shoulders. One terminated in a long, greasy tentacle that trailed along in the dust behind it. Catching sight of Otto and Ethrac, the monster cracked a wide grin, and a semi-chewed leg dropped from his jaws.
‘Good feasting, o my brother?’ asked Otto, reaching out to stroke the creature’s bald head.
Ghurk, the final triplet, nodded enthusiastically, and more half-chewed body parts slopped from his slack lower jaw. Eating made Ghurk happy, and eating warm human flesh made him even happier. Several hapless victims were still clutched in his clawed hand; some of them still struggling weakly.
Otto took a short run-up, and launched himself from the temple’s edge and into mid-air. He landed heavily on Ghurk’s shoulders, and shuffled into position. Ghurk gurgled with pleasure, and started chewing again.
‘Can anything stand against this, o my brother?’ called out Otto to Ethrac, proudly surveying the scene from atop his sibling’s unnaturally huge bulk. In every direction, the rampant desecration of the Plaguefather ran wild. Soon the last of what had been Marienburg would be overwhelmed entirely, a festering jungle on the western seaboard of the Empire, the first foothold of what would become Father Nurgle’s reign of corpulence on earth.
Ethrac gazed at his two brothers with genuine fondness, and his withered face cracked a toothy smile. ‘No, my brother,’ he admitted, making ready to join Otto on Ghurk’s back, from whence the two of them would begin the long march east. ‘You are quite correct. Nothing can stand against it.’
SEVEN
Drakenhof was not how Vlad remembered it. The centuries had not been kind to the ancient structure, and whole wings had fallen into ivy-covered ruin. The ice-cold wind from the Worlds Edge Mountains cut straight through the many gouges and gaps in the walls, skittering around the dusty halls within and shaking the ragged tapestries on their wall-hangings.
Since returning to Sylvania from the far north, he had done what he could to restore something like order to the ruins. He had raised the cadavers of the old castle architects, and they had soundlessly got back to work, ordering work-gangs of living dead to haul stone and saw wood, just as they had years ago.
There was no time to make the necessary repairs though, and so Vlad’s throne stood in an empty audience chamber with the chill whistling through open eaves. Sitting in his old iron throne gave him no joy, for his surroundings were scarce better than any common bandit-lord.
He deserved better. He had always deserved better, and now that he was a mortarch, one of the Chosen of Nagash, his surroundings were little more than a bad joke.
Beyond the castle’s crumbling walls, out under the sick light of Morrslieb, the entire countryside was alive with movement. A thousand undead did their dread master’s bidding, dragging old sword-blades from graves and fitting them with spell-wound hilts. Armour was pulled from cobwebbed store-chambers and dug out from long barrows, all to arm the host that would take Vlad from the margins of the Empire and back into its very heart.
Mortal men worked alongside their dead cousins, swallowing their horror out of fear of the new seigneur of Castle Drakenhof. In truth, it was not just fear that made them work – the old ties of loyalty still had purchase, and there was no doubt in their slow, brutish minds that their true lord had returned.
Vlad did not despise them for that. They were only performing what their station demanded, and he held no contempt for his subjects. When he slew them in order to drink their blood, he did so cleanly, taking libation through the magics of his sword rather than sucking the flesh like an animal. They were cattle, as necessary to his kind as meat and water were to the mortal lords of the Empire, and if they served him faithfully then their lives would be no worse than any other of the toiling peasantry across the hardscrabble badlands of the outer Empire.
Some, of course, refused to see that, which required more punitive action to be taken. Thus it was that the witch hunter hung before him, suspended in a writhing aura of black-tinged flame. His arms were locked out wide, his legs clamped together, his head thrown back.
Vlad regarded him coolly from the throne.
‘What do you think will happen to you?’ he asked.
The witch hunter, his scarred face taut with pain, could only reply through clenched teeth. ‘I will... resist,’ he gasped. ‘While I live, I will resist.’
‘I realise that,’ Vlad sighed. ‘But when your resistance ends, what do you think will happen then?’
‘I will be gathered into the light of Sigmar. I will join the Choirs of the Faithful.’
‘Ah. I am afraid not,’ said Vlad, feeling some genuine sadness. ‘Perhaps, in the past, you might have done, but the Laws of Death are not what they were. Perhaps you have not felt the change.’ He got up from the throne, and his black robes fell about him as he stepped down from the dais towards his victim. The witch hunter watched him approach, his face showing little fear but plenty of defiance. ‘The world is running out of time. My Master has wounded the barrier between realms. The long-departed will soon stir in the earth, and nothing your boy-God can do will have the slightest effect. I admit that, for a time, our kind were troubled by your... faith. Those days, I am happy to say, are coming to an end.’
Vlad walked around the witch hunter, noting with some appreciation how the mortal controlled the trepidation that must have been shivering through him.
‘You think of me as your enemy,’ Vlad said. ‘How far from the truth that is. In reality, I am your only hope. The paths of fate are twofold now: servitude before the ravening Gods of the North, or servitude before the Lord of Death. There is no middle way. I do not expect you to see the truth of it immediately, but you will, in time. All of you will. I merely hope the realisation comes before all is lost.’
The witch hunter struggled against the black flames, but they writhed more tightly, binding him as firmly as chains. Vlad needed to exert the merest flicker of effort to maintain them. Sylvania’s soil was now such a fertile breeding ground for magic that his powers were greater than they had ever been.
‘Lies,’ spat the witch hunter, with some effort. ‘My faith is unshakeable.’
‘I can see that,’ said Vlad. ‘And so I am willing to extend a great gift to you. You may join me freely. You may follow me as a mortal man, and learn the ways of my Master. Your life will be extended many times over, and you will accomplish far more against the Dark Gods than you ever would have done while in your current service. The pain can end. You can still fight evil. I have ever been a generous liege-lord – even your annals must tell it so.’
The witch hunter’s eyes narrowed, and the muscles on his jawline twitched. Vlad could feel the man’s willpower eroding – he had been tormented for hours, and every man, no matter how well-prepared, had his breaking point.
‘Never,’ he said, his voice nearly cracking with effort.
Vlad drew close to him. He extended a finger to the man’s throat, tracing the line of a raised vein. ‘Your Empire is over, mortal. I say that not to crow, for I take no pleasure in seeing the ruin of what I once aspired to rule. It is merely a fact. I saw
your Emperor slain at Heffengen. I saw the Bastion break, and I saw what was behind that wall. You are an intelligent man: you can see for yourself what is happening. Plagues run free, wiping out whole villages in a single night. The forest comes alive, churning with unnatural growth. The rivers clog, the crops fail.’ He slid his finger alongside the man’s ear. ‘They say that Marienburg has already fallen. Talabheim will be next. Your house is crumbling around you – I offer a new home for your loyalty.’
The witch hunter’s face creased in agony. His fists balled. He was still fighting. Lines of magic-heated sweat ran down his temples and slipped to the floor, fizzing as the drops hit the cold stone.
‘Never,’ he said again, screwing his eyes closed as he struggled to fight on.
Vlad regarded him bleakly. The offer had been magnanimous, but even the patience of lords came to an end. ‘One thing, then,’ he said. ‘Just one scrap. Tell me your name. I will need it.’
The witch hunter’s eyes snapped open. He stared up at the open rafters, his expression proud. ‘Jan Herrscher,’ he said. ‘By the grace of our Lord Sigmar, that is the name I have always borne. I never hid it, and may it give honour to Him forever.’
Vlad nodded. ‘Herrscher,’ he murmured. ‘A fine name. And believe me, you have given him honour. Truly, you have.’
Then he withdrew, and snapped his fingers. The black flames flared into a coil, and fastened themselves around Herrscher’s neck. The coil contracted, snapping the man’s spine. For a moment, his eyes continued to stare upward, then he went limp in his bonds. Vlad gestured again, the fires flickered out, and the witch hunter’s body thudded to the stone.
Vlad gazed down at the corpse for a moment. It was a shame. Herrscher was the kind of man that made the Empire worth fighting for.
His thoughts were interrupted by a low cough at the chamber’s entrance. He looked up to see one of his white-faced servants hovering anxiously. This one was a living soul, and Vlad felt an involuntary pang as he watched the man’s blood vessels throb under his skin.
‘You pardon, lord,’ the servant stammered, clearly terrified, ‘but the first brigades are ready for inspection.
That was good. It would be a long and arduous task to create the army that Vlad required, even though Nagash had been quite insistent on the need for haste. The hosts of the North were converging on Altdorf already, and Sylvania was far further from Reikland than Marienburg. Even the expedience of raising the fallen to fight again would scarce suffice to meet the need, and so the scouring of Sylvania for living troops had begun in earnest.
‘Very good,’ said Vlad, pulling his robes about him, preparing to descend the winding stairs to the parade ground below. ‘I will attend shortly.’ His gaze alighted again on the body of Herrscher. ‘And do something with this while I am gone.’
The servant hesitated before complying. Even in death, a witch hunter could inspire terror in a Sylvanian. ‘Shall I burn the body, lord?’ he asked.
Vlad shook his head. ‘Do no such thing,’ he said. ‘Take it to my chambers and give it every proper burial rite.’
He swept imperiously out of the chamber. As he did so, the last of the black flames guttered out.
‘He is too good to waste,’ Vlad said. ‘We shall have to find ways for him to serve again.’
The Grand Chamber of Magnus Enthroned stood near the summit of the Imperial Palace’s main basilica. Vast walls of granite and ashlar stone soared above a wide marble floor. The pillars that held up the high vaulted roof were many-columned and banded with silver. Torches blazed, sending clouds of soot rolling into the heights. Statues of fallen heroes stood in alcoves along the walls, each graven from black veined stone. Magnus himself had been carved from a solid block of dark grey granite, depicted sitting in judgement on a massive throne. His image dominated the far end of the hall, fully twenty feet high, as stern and unbending as he had been in life.
Overlooked by such grandeur, the chamber’s few living inhabitants were dwarfed into near-insignificance. They stood in the empty centre in a loose circle, clad in the robes of finest silk and linen and bearing heavy gold artefacts of office – chains, amulets, crowns.
All but one. Martak had not had the time or the will to find something to wear less filthy than the robes he had slept in, and so stood apart from the others. He guessed that he smelled fairly bad to them. That was simply reciprocal – each of the others smelled truly repellent to him, with their thick-wafted perfumes and armour-unguents.
‘None have suffered more than I,’ said the sturdiest of them, a tall man wearing a fur-lined jerkin and long green cloak. His leonine face was crested with a mane of snow-white, and he wore a goatee beard on his age-lined face. Despite his advanced years, he carried himself with a warrior’s bearing, and his flinty eyes gave away no weakness.
Of all of them, Martak liked him the most. This was Theodoric Gausser, Elector Count of Nordland, and there was something attractive about his unflinchingly martial demeanour.
‘We have all suffered,’ replied a woman standing to his right. She was as old as Gausser, and draped in lines of pearls over a fabulously opulent gown of grey and silver. Her face was gaunt, though liberally rouged and slabbed with whitener. She carried herself perfectly erect, as if her spine might snap if she curved it.
This was Emanuelle von Liebwitz, Elector Count of Wissenland, as fabulously wealthy as her subjects were grindingly poor. Like Gausser, she was no one’s fool, though her imperious manner even with her peers made her hard to warm to.
‘Nordland has borne the brunt of the enemy for centuries,’ reiterated Gausser. ‘We have fought them longer and harder. I know what it takes to beat them.’
‘None of us knows what it takes to beat them,’ said a third figure, quietly. He was thinner than the others, as tall as a crane and with a pronounced nose. His attire was less flamboyant – a drab green overcoat and travel-worn boots. That would have come as little surprise to any who knew his province – Stirland was miserably poor, and far from the Imperial centre from which all patronage flowed. This one was Graf Alberich Haupt-Anderssen, a grand name that did little to disguise the poverty of his inheritance. ‘If we did, their threat would have been eradicated long before this day. They are unbeatable. All that remains is survival for as long as we can muster it.’
The other two glared at Haupt-Anderssen contemptuously. The first two were warlike electors, and their cousin’s blood was too thin for their liking.
Martak said nothing, but took some enjoyment from the incongruity of the situation. None of those assembled could remotely have been described as the finest the Empire had to offer. The greatest names were dead or missing – Gelt, Volkmar, Schwarzhelm, Helborg, the Emperor himself. Other Electors, such as the great Todbringer of Middenheim, were looking to their own defences. What remained in Altdorf were the outriders, those still obsessed enough with the Great Game to seek political advancement even as the wolves scratched at the door.
‘Your cowardice damns you, Graf,’ spat von Liebwitz.
Haupt-Anderssen shrugged. ‘There is no virtue in hiding behind fantasies.’
‘You shame this hall,’ said Gausser, gesturing to the towering image of Magnus.
Haupt-Anderssen sniffed, and said nothing.
A fourth figure cleared his throat then – Hans Zintler, the Reikscaptain. In Helborg’s absence he was the highest ranking military officer, and carried himself suitably formally, with a brass-buttoned jerkin and short riding cloak. His black moustache was neatly trimmed across a broad-jawed face.
‘With your pardon, lords,’ he interjected. ‘Only one task requires our attention this day. The news from Marienburg requires a response.’
‘Deserved everything they got,’ growled Gausser. ‘Dirty secessionists.’
‘Maybe so, lord,’ said von Liebwitz, ‘but the question is what to do about the army that laid them low.’
‘Nothing,’ said Haupt-Anderssen. ‘Look to our walls. That is the only hope.’
‘With what?’ grunted Martak, his first contribution to the debate. All eyes turned to him, as if the others had only just noticed his presence. Von Liebwitz’s elegant nose wrinkled, and she pressed a scented handkerchief to her mouth. ‘We can barely man the walls here. Send men to Carroburg and they’ll just die a little earlier.’
Gausser bristled. ‘We have wizards advising us on military matters now?’
‘You invited me,’ shrugged Martak. ‘I’d have been happier with the horses.’
Zintler coughed nervously. He was a good man, a fine soldier, but he did not like discord amongst his superiors. ‘Then, Supreme Patriarch, what would you suggest?’
Martak laughed harshly. ‘Gelt was Supreme Patriarch. I’m just a filthy bird-tamer.’ He looked at Gausser shrewdly. ‘Call the Carroburg garrison back here. Call them all back. Surrender the forest – it can look after itself. You can’t weaken this army, not out there. All we have are walls.’ He shot a glance at Haupt-Anderssen. ‘You’re right. We need to use them.’
Von Liebwitz took a short breath, trying not to sniff too deeply. ‘It is clear to me, master wizard, that you have little understanding of war. There are three armies making their way towards us. Once they reach the Reik valley, we will be without hope of reinforcement. If nothing is done to hamper their progress, the noose will tighten before the solstice falls.’
‘They won’t hurry,’ snorted Martak. ‘Do you not see it yet? Geheimnisnacht is the key. They will arrive then, when their powers are at their height and the daemon-moon rides full.’ He crossed his arms. ‘That is the hour of our doom. We can neither delay nor hasten its coming, so we should just make ready for it.’
Zintler looked uncomfortable. In normal times, Martak’s advice would have been balanced by the Grand Theogonist’s, but, as with so many others, Volkmar was missing, presumed dead, and the arch-lectors had not answered his summons.
The End Times | The Fall of Altdorf Page 8
