The End Times | The Fall of Altdorf

by Chris Wraight

  ‘That they are,’ said Ethrac, with some satisfaction. ‘Old allies fade, new allies arrive. Dharek will be at the walls of Altdorf in good time to meet us.’

  Otto scratched a pustule on his cheek absently. ‘So many,’ he muttered. ‘Who will take the prize?’

  ‘Prizes for all,’ said Ethrac. ‘We should shackle Ghurk again – if he spends his strength on gluttony, we shall be late.’

  Otto nodded. ‘I shall loop the chains around his neck. He will not be happy.’

  Ethrac snapped his fingers, and the map zoomed out again, exposing the whole vast panorama of the Empire. In that instant, it was clear what was happening – the three great arms of the northern host were converging with inexorable, steady progress on the Reikland, smashing aside every obstacle in their path. It was unfolding just as the Everchosen had ordered, and the heart of the Empire was being slowly torn inside out.

  ‘And the dead?’ asked Otto, remembering Ethrac’s concern at Marienburg.

  ‘No skeletons here,’ said the sorcerer, sending the boiling visions slopping back into the cauldron. ‘Perhaps they have been seen off.’ He grinned at his brother. ‘Or maybe they turn on the living. What matter? What could stand against the three of us?’

  Otto grinned back. Ethrac was right. It helped to be shown the full majesty of the plan. It helped with the nagging doubts that, every so often, snagged in his feverish mind. ‘That is good to see, o my brother,’ he said, clapping Ethrac on the shoulder. ‘So we should be off now.’

  ‘That we should,’ said Ethrac, gazing around himself wistfully, no doubt speculating what sport he could have had in such a place. ‘Festus will be waiting for us.’

  Otto blurted a throaty laugh. He always forgot about Festus, but, in truth, the Leechlord was the pin around which the whole scheme revolved.

  ‘Then all hastens towards the purpose,’ he said, satisfied.

  ‘It does,’ said Ethrac. ‘Now fetch our brother, and feed the armies until their stomachs swell.’ He shot Otto a smile of pure, lascivious darkness. ‘Just one more march. That is all. One more.’

  The knights of Bretonnia on the march was a sight unequalled in the Old World. Each warrior took with him three or four warhorses, all draped in fine caparisons and marked with the heraldic signs of a hundred different bloodlines. Squires and grooms came with them, and reeves, cooks, heralds, priests and a hundred other officials and servants. A vast train of baggage followed them all, carrying all the supplies and weaponry for a long campaign in the saddle. The whole cavalcade coursed through the countryside in a single, vast column, winding its way east from the fens of Couronne and into the highlands north of the Pale Sisters range.

  Leoncoeur rode at the head of the column, pushing the pace hard. He had studied the maps long in the vaults of Couronne while the army had mustered, debating with his counsellors which path to take. Throughout, the mysterious Gilles le Breton had held his silence, offering neither blessing nor condemnation of the Errantry. Towards the end, exasperated, Leoncoeur had asked him outright what his counsel was.

  ‘The Lady ordained you,’ le Breton had told him, his green eyes as unfathomable as the sea. ‘I have no part in this.’

  Le Breton spoke to him as if he were already dead – a walking ghost, just like so many that had been loosed across the realm.

  So Leoncoeur had plotted his own course – south-east, across the highlands of Gisoreux, before descending into the borderlands of Montfort. They would cross the Grey Mountains at Axebite Pass, heading swiftly north and emerging into Reikland south of Altdorf.

  That path was not the swiftest, but the news from the wasteland was now unequivocal – Marienburg had been destroyed and daemons loosed across the marshes. There was no profit in getting bogged down in fighting with such creatures when speed was of the essence. Since his vision of the Lady, Leoncoeur’s dreams had become ever more vivid, and he needed no scouts to tell him the scale of the host that was grinding its way east across the lower Empire.

  Still, if the Bretonnians could maintain the blistering pace that he had set, the prospect still survived of reaching Sigmar’s city before the enemy had it completely surrounded and beyond hope of rescue. Once clear of the Grey Mountains, the race would truly begin.

  For now, they picked their way up from the plains and into the granite highlands. Huge outcrops jutted into the sky on either side of them, pocked and striated from the racing winds. Lush pastures gave way to thinner grassland, littered with chalky boulders.

  It was a relief to get away from the low country. The air became fresher as they climbed, rippling the pennants and making the colours flow across the flanks of the steeds. The skies above them never cleared of the oppressive grey mantle they had worn since the coming of Mallobaude, but the rains held, and the worst of the thunder growled away in the far north.

  As he rode, Leoncoeur was joined by his lieutenant, Yves Jhared of Couronne, who had fought alongside him on many previous engagements and was as trusted a companion as the king had ever had. Jhared had the flaming red hair and ice-pale skin of a native of Albion, though no one had ever dared to suggest such ancestry to his face.

  ‘Hail, lord,’ said Jhared, pulling his horse level with Leoncoeur’s. ‘We make good progress.’

  ‘Needs to be faster,’ Leoncoeur replied, still preoccupied with the pace. With every passing day, the prospect of missing out on the battle loomed a little larger.

  Jhared laughed easily. ‘We are the best of the realm. Command greater speed, and we will answer.’

  ‘I have no doubt of it,’ said Leoncoeur, scouring the skies ahead. The clouds remained blank and unmoving, which troubled him. He had not chosen the route across the Pale Ladies idly, but his hopes had not yet come to fruition.

  ‘Do you search for spies?’ asked Jhared, half-seriously. ‘Have the Dark Gods turned even the birds of the air?’

  Leoncoeur snorted a bitter laugh. ‘Do not jest.’ He inclined his head a little, sniffing the air carefully. ‘But do you not sense them? You disappoint me.’

  Jhared looked amused, then uncertain, and peered up into the skies in turn. ‘Pray, what am I looking for?’ he asked, just as the question became superfluous.

  Ahead of them, where the land rose steeply towards a forked granite peak, the clouds suddenly swirled, like cream stirred in a pail. Leoncoeur held up his gauntlet, and the column clanked to a halt. He drew himself up in his saddle, turning to address the long train of knights behind him.

  ‘Stand fast, brothers!’ he cried. ‘You are not the only warriors to answer my summons.’

  As the words left his mouth, the clouds were pierced by a dozen winged horses, swooping earthwards with the poise and grace of swans in flight. Their outstretched pinions gleamed like pristine ivory, and their proud heads tossed and bucked. More pegasi emerged in their wake, flying in formation. They wheeled around in a wide arc, galloping through the high airs just as their earthbound cousins did on the charge.

  Jhared whooped with joy, as all Bretonnians did at the sight of such rare and prized steeds. ‘Never so many!’ he exclaimed, eyes shining. ‘In the name of the Lady, how did you achieve this?’

  Leoncoeur could not stifle a laugh himself. It felt good, after so many months of brooding. The sky-host circled above them, four-score of the semi-wild pegasi of the mountains, each of them answering the call he had sent out, trusting to the Lady’s influence that the summons would be answered. ‘I was lord of this realm, once,’ he said, watching them soar. ‘That still counts for something.’

  Jhared looked at him wonderingly. ‘So it does. But how did you give them the summons? These are wild creatures.’

  Leoncoeur smiled. ‘I have one loyal servant who never lost faith.’

  As the last of the pegasi emerged from the cloudbanks, they were followed by a far huger creature, a bizarre amalgam of raptor and horse, with a greater wingspan and a bulkier, more powerful body. Where the pegasi soared across the skies with an acrobat’s grace, this cr
eature plunged through the air like a galleon crashing through breakers. It dropped rapidly, folding its huge wings as it extended four huge clawed legs beneath it.

  Leoncoeur’s mount reared up, panicked by the plummet of the monstrous beast. ‘Fear not!’ Leoncoeur commanded, yanking hard on the reins. ‘This is your cousin, and it would no more eat horseflesh than I would.’

  The huge hippogryph landed heavily before them, flexing its shaggy limbs and cawing harshly. Leoncoeur dismounted and raced over to it. The beast lowered its beaked head and nuzzled against its master’s embrace. Leoncoeur breathed in the familiar aroma again, and it instantly reminded him of past wars and past victories.

  ‘Beaquis,’ he murmured, feeling the plumage brush past. ‘Now I am complete.’

  Then he turned to the assembled knights, and laughed again. It was a pure laugh, a warrior’s laugh, free of the care that had trammelled it for so long.

  ‘Can any doubt the favour of the Lady now?’ he cried. ‘With weapons such as these, what enemy will dare stand against us?’

  The knights roared back their approval, hammering on their shields with the hilts of their blades. At the head of the column, Jhared saluted his liege.

  ‘Smartly done, my lord,’ he said, bowing as the pegasi circled above them all protectively.

  Leoncoeur gave Beaquis a final affectionate thump on the thickly muscled neck, then strode back to his stamping, wide-eyed mount. ‘They will fly before us over the mountains. They will take saddle and halter when Altdorf is in sight, and not before. I will not have them wearied before time.’

  Then he mounted once more, and kicked his horse back into motion. ‘Until then, the march continues. Ride on.’

  The sun slanted weakly through the high windows of the Imperial Chamber of War, striking the veined marble floor in thin grey streaks. Columns soared up around the chamber’s circular perimeter, enclosing a vast auditorium of concentric seats. The hall’s capacity was considerable, for it had been designed to hold representatives from every elector’s staff, every senior ranking magister from the Colleges, the Grand Theogonist and representatives of the sanctioned Imperial Cults, the Engineering Colleges, the Knightly Orders and the standing regiments of the Empire, plus trading guild observers and members of the various diplomatic corps from all over the known world.

  Looking up from his throne at the very centre of the chamber, Helborg noted how sparsely it was filled. Fewer than two hundred seats were occupied, and most of those by deputies and functionaries. The three resident elector counts sat in the inner circle, along with their official staff and some minor Imperial courtiers. The Colleges of Magic had sent four delegates, including the peasant-stock charlatan Gregor Martak, whose presence in the Imperial Palace continued to baffle Helborg. Zintler was there, as well as von Kleistervoll and a few dozen high-ranking generals. The Knightly Orders were headed by the brute figure of Gerhard von Sleivor, Grand Master of the Knights Panther, who sat brooding with eight of his peers in full plate armour. Several other delegates were unknown to Helborg, which in itself was an eloquent statement of how far the defenders’ numbers had been thinned.

  ‘Very well,’ he said thickly, feeling the weight of his eyelids as he looked down the long agenda. ‘What is next?’

  ‘The forest draws close to the walls,’ said Magister Anne-Louisa Trinckel of the Jade College, her grey hair falling messily around a droopy face. ‘It must be culled, for the growths are not natural.’

  ‘It is scheduled to be done, Herrin Magister,’ said Helborg, wondering how on earth such a woman came to be the head of her Order. ‘We are short of men, and the rebuilding of the outer walls takes priority.’

  ‘That is a mistake,’ said Trinckel, looking around her for support. ‘The enemy will use the trees. There is power in the trees. We have long counselled that the felling of the forest has been neglected – now the consequences have come to haunt us.’

  Helborg shot a dark glance at Zintler. ‘Do we have any work details that can be spared?’

  Zintler raised an eyebrow. ‘Spared?’

  Helborg nodded, understanding his frustration. Every able-bodied man and woman in the entire city was being worked to exhaustion just to keep on top of the landslide of tasks. The state troopers were being drilled relentlessly, the engineers spent hours atop rickety scaffolds working on the fortifications, the gunnery crews ceaselessly practised running out the great cannons and re-arming the mortar launchers.

  ‘I am sorry, magister,’ Helborg said, remembering the courtesies with some difficulty. ‘At this time, we just do not have the hands for the task.’

  Trinckel was about to protest, when she was overruled by Arek Fleischer, the acting Arch-Lector of the Church of Sigmar. ‘Forget the trees!’ he blurted impatiently. ‘The temples are falling into ruin. We are nothing without faith. My priests have been pressed into the service of the army, even those who do not carry the warhammer. This is unacceptable – they are not trained for war.’

  Von Sleivor slammed his armoured fist on the table before him. ‘Where is Volkmar?’ he hissed. ‘He would have had you drawn and quartered for less – priests must do their part.’

  ‘The temples will be restored, arch-lector,’ explained Helborg, as patiently as he could. ‘Now, though, is not the time. All must take their turn on the walls. Surely you can see our weakness is in numbers?’ Fleischer did not look convinced. Helborg attempted to smile, knowing that it was more likely to emerge as a grimace. The arts of persuasion, rather than brute force, did not come easily. ‘I myself fought with Luthor Huss, your brother-in-arms. There is no finer warrior in the Empire. Surely he is the example we should be following here.’

  At the mention of Huss, Fleischer’s face reddened, and he started to shout something unintelligible about heresies even in the bosom of Sigmar’s congregation. This was angrily contested by Magister Willibald de Champney, the ludicrously coiffured magister of the Celestial College, appointed following the departure to war of his superior Raphael Julevno. His fellow wizards soon piled in on his behalf, following by Haupt-Anderssen’s chief of staff and the Grand Master of the Knights of the Sable Chalice.

  ‘Silence!’ roared Helborg, standing up and smashing his gavel on the lectern before him. His voice rang around the chamber, quelling the restive quarrels before they became unstoppable. Looking down, he realised he had snapped the small hammer with the force of his strike.

  A broken hammer. Oddly appropriate.

  ‘This is a council of war, my lords,’ said Helborg, his darkening visage sweeping the rows of occupied chairs before him. Not for the first time, he wondered just how Karl Franz had kept such a disparate and dysfunctional body politic operational for so long. ‘With every passing day, the enemy comes closer. Marienburg has already fallen. We have no word from Talabheim or Middenheim. The river-passages are closed to us, and our attempts to contact Nuln and Couronne have yielded nothing. If we are to survive this, we will have to start worrying less about trees and temples and more about blades and blackpowder.’

  For the first time, Helborg let a little of the parade-ground earthiness into his speech, and his voice assumed the rasping quality it took on when ordering his knights into the charge. Some of the assembled worthies, like von Kleistervoll and Sleivor, appreciated that. Others, the electors among them, murmured unhappily among themselves.

  ‘Now,’ said Helborg, deliberately inflecting his words with as much calm, clear authority as he could, ‘let us take stock of what we have determined here. The remaining grain supplies will be removed to the main barracks, as will the surviving quantities of ale and unspoiled water. We will carry out the levy in the poor quarters, drafting any man who can stand into the reserve battalions under General von Hildenshaft. There will be no exemptions from the watch rotations. When the enemy gets here, I wish to see every able hand clutching a sword.’

  Then he fixed his eyes on each of the delegates in turn, daring them to question the scant resolutions that had been pains
takingly agreed. ‘Is there anything else?’ he asked.

  Only one man had the gall to stand. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Helborg recognised Martak.

  ‘I come to speak of the Rot,’ said the Supreme Patriarch, speaking haltingly in his strangely accented Reikspiel. ‘It does not matter how strong we make the walls – the plague spreads from within. We must purge the undercity.’

  Martak’s voice fell flat in the huge echoing spaces of the chamber. As soon as he mentioned the Rot, irritated muttering started up again.

  ‘There is no such thing,’ said von Liebwitz confidently. ‘If the peasants only bathed more and ceased their rutting, all this sickness would cease.’

  ‘It is carried by the air,’ opined de Champney, to much nodding from his fellow magisters. ‘It cannot be eradicated while the foul winds blow.’

  ‘It comes from the river,’ said Fleischer. ‘And we will not dam that.’

  Helborg felt a vice of weariness settle like a yoke on his shoulders. Was there nothing they could agree on? ‘And just what do you suggest, my lord Patriarch?’ he asked. ‘As you can clearly see, every ready hand already has a task to perform.’

  ‘I need teams of armed soldiers,’ said Martak. ‘A hundred strong each, all to be led by a magister of my colleges. The Rot rises from the sewers. Only by purging them all can we reach the source.’

  ‘Purge them all?’ blurted Elector Gausser. ‘You are mad, Supreme Patriarch.’

  ‘It cannot be done,’ added one of the master engineers, a bearded man with a bronze-rimmed monocle and gold braids on his epaulettes. ‘The undercity runs for dozens of miles.’

  Martak remained calm in the face of the scorn. Throughout the uproar, his steady gaze never left Helborg. ‘Something is working against us down there,’ he insisted. ‘Something that grows stronger. It must be rooted out.’

  Helborg struggled to control his irritation. Martak had not bothered to pull out the straggles in his filthy beard. Helborg could smell the man from twenty paces away, and his robes, such as they were, were streaked with dirt. ‘I do not doubt you,’ Helborg said, trying not to let his jaw clench. ‘But there is no question of those numbers. They are needed on the walls.’