Wolf of Sigmar

by C. L. Werner

  The peasants understood. Their ties to the land were more intimate than those of their noble lords. It struck Mandred as bitterly ironic that the men who owned the land had less understanding of it than those who served them. Not simply how to till the soil or bring the cattle to pasture, but an actual appreciation of the land as a living, vibrant thing. For too many of the nobles, their holdings were merely something to generate an income; their interest in it began and ended with the coin each harvest generated.

  Then there were the opportunists, those like Baroness Carin who saw in the conflict a way to gather power for themselves. Mandred had been impressed by the noblewoman’s strength and determination, but her calculating politicking was something that evoked his contempt. Wherever his army marched, Baroness Carin ensured that concessions were made to Nordland and Middenland, pacts and treaties that would favour those realms once the fighting was done. She sought to profit from the war, that was clear enough, and her inclusion of Middenland in those spoils was also obvious. She’d made it clear several times that her interest in the Graf of Middenheim was more than platonic.

  There were many who were already whispering that Mandred should become the next Emperor, that the House von Zelt should be the new keepers of the Imperial crown. Baroness Carin was cautious in voicing her own support for such a future, probably because it would be unseemly for a woman who hoped to become Empress to inveigle herself in the question.

  Mandred glanced in her direction and saw Baroness Carin return his gaze with a stalwart nod of approval. Whatever her ambitions for the future, now, in the present, she was a staunch ally. He turned his gaze towards General von Weichs, the commander of the Stirlander contingent, and Dregator Vladislav from the Sylvanian levy. Both soldiers were obviously ill at ease, uncomfortable with marching their troops into another battle, yet at the same time well aware that inaction would threaten their homelands.

  Elder Boldo Hoop from Mootland was more reserved than the delegates from his neighbours. Possibly since the Black Plague had limited its attentions to humans and failed to infect halflings, the skaven had avoided any intrusion across the boundaries of the Moot. That had engendered among the halflings an isolationist attitude, most of them content to remain in their peaceful oasis while disease and war raged around them. At the same time, the Moot’s good fortune had turned it into a potential breadbasket for Mandred’s army. The supplies of food he’d negotiated for would be far more vital than any military support the halflings could offer. Even so, Mandred had welcomed the hundred-odd archers who formed the All Volunteer Mootland Anti-Rat Brigade.

  Less helpful were the contingents from Talabecland and Ostland. They were eager to return to their homelands now that neighbouring Stirland had been cleansed of the ratkin. With their borders secured, these forces felt their part in the war was finished. Count von Drexler of Talabheim had even argued that Mandred’s force should turn to Hochland, scourge the skaven from that province and secure the whole of the north before attending to the infested south. Count van der Duijn, of course, continued to press for a strike against the Norscans in Marienburg, even in the face of reports that the barbarians were withdrawing of their own accord, their ranks decimated as the Black Plague finally reached their enclave.

  Mandred listened to all the arguments. His decision was already made, had been made before he set foot in the lodge. The council was here to argue for the positions of their respective lands, to make their voices heard. Mandred knew it was important that the rulers of Ostland and Talabheim felt their opinions had been heard, that their advice had been given due consideration. Indeed, if a good enough reason could be made, Mandred did not believe himself so conceited in his power that he couldn’t be swayed by a solid argument.

  No such argument had been offered, however. Leaning across the table, Mandred thanked the assembled generals and nobles, paused a moment to honour the counsel of Ar-Ulric and Arch-Lector Hartwich, and paid his respects to Kurgaz and his dwarfish allies.

  Then, the Graf of Middenheim settled back in his chair and declared what he intended to do. ‘The skaven infestation of Averheim threatens this entire region,’ he said, directing his words particularly at the Stirlander and Sylvanian emissaries as well as Elder Hoop. ‘It is the core of the ratmen’s occupation of Averland, the nest from which their armies plunder the province and enslave its people.’ He turned and nodded to Kurgaz. ‘It has been opined that the skaven armies that have been assembled here are so large because the ratkin seek to make an assault against Zhufbar and engage their hereditary foes, the dwarfs. However, it is equally possible, now that so much of the north has been cleansed of their evil, that the skaven will loose these armies into the very lands we have spent so much blood to liberate.’ He pointed at the leaders from Ostland and Talabecland. ‘Do not think the skaven will be content with simply holding Averland and the rest of the south. Do not even think they will be satisfied with retaking Stirland or capturing Sylvania. Even if you are so craven as to allow your fellow men to languish in bondage to the ratkin, you will not be safe. In a month, a year, the skaven will come for your lands and there will be no one to stand and help you defend them.’

  ‘If you are wise, you will attack while the skaven are massed in Averheim,’ the suggestion came from Kurgaz. ‘I’ve seen that city. I know how tightly it is packed inside its walls. The numbers of the ratkin will work against them if they are trapped inside those walls.’

  ‘Nor can the vermin afford to bring their complete strength against an attacker.’ For the first time since the meeting had started, the wolf-witch Hulda approached the table. Ar-Ulric gave her a stern glance, but too many of the other commanders at the table had benefited from the accuracy of her prognostications to gainsay her a place among them. The wild-looking woman swept her piercing gaze across the table. ‘The skaven have yet to break the defenders within the Averburg. The old quarter remains in human hands and continues to endure the siege of the underfolk. Several times the Averlanders have managed to sally from behind the old walls, wrecking havoc among the ratmen. If Averheim is attacked from without, the skaven will still fear an attack from within.’

  Count von Drexler remained unconvinced. ‘From what I have heard, the skaven massed in Averheim are more numerous than anything we have seen. A larger army of the monsters than conquered Carroburg and Dietershafen or laid siege to Wolfenburg. It will take a massive effort to relieve the city, and we face the very real prospect that, even if we are victorious, our army will be too weak to remain an effective fighting force.’

  Mandred nodded. ‘I agree, that is a possibility. But if the army is too weak to fight the skaven at Averheim, how will it be strong enough to stop the ratkin when they eventually leave Averheim and strike north?’ He let the question linger for a moment, letting the truth of his words impress itself on each mind. ‘No, if we cannot break the monsters here, we won’t be able to break them later when our forces have been dispersed to guard our homelands. It must be now if we are to prevail.’

  As he walked away from the hunting lodge towards his own tent, Arch-Lector Hartwich was struck by the appearance of several armed riders moving through the army’s encampment. Throughout their long march, the army had added small bands of fighters to its ranks. Usually these were the retinues of some petty lord, small companies of mercenaries or displaced Dienstleute, even the occasional bandit gang. The riders he now observed were markedly different.

  There were about three dozen of them, all kitted out in heavy suits of plate armour, the metal blackened to a dull, sooty colour. As striking as the black armour was, it was the ghoulish masks each of the horsemen wore that made them so remarkable. The steel masks of their helms were cast in the semblance of leering skulls.

  A quick enquiry from a passing Middenheim officer revealed to Hartwich that these men called themselves the Knights of the Black Rose. They had ridden all the way from Wissenland where they had been campaigning relentlessly
against the skaven around Pfeildorf. Their leader was a man named Aldinger from Nuln, though his accent was that of Reikland.

  As he watched the sombre procession ride past him, Hartwich was struck by the familiarity of the way they marched their horses, how they held their lances at a slight tilt with the butt resting against the left stirrup. It was like watching Grand Master von Schomberg’s Reiksknecht on parade.

  While Hartwich was watching the knights, one of the armoured riders broke ranks and galloped towards him. Dipping his lance respectfully towards the priest, the warrior addressed him in a precise, clipped tone. ‘You are Arch-Lector Wolfgang Hartwich?’ the knight asked.

  ‘I am,’ Hartwich said. ‘Would I be speaking to Grand Master Aldinger of the Knights of the Black Rose?’ It was a guess, but the trace of Reikland in the rider’s voice made Hartwich think it a good guess.

  ‘Captain Aldinger,’ the knight corrected him. ‘The Knights of the Black Rose are too poor for a grand master. A captain suits our needs well enough.’ From behind the sockets of his steel mask, Aldinger’s eyes took on a cunning aspect. ‘There is a second captain who rides with us, though he is not of our order. He is waiting for you in your tent. I must ask a question of you, your excellency. Is he safe there? Is what he has brought safe?’

  Hartwich was silent for a moment. The import with which Aldinger asked his question, the gravity of his voice told him exactly who this other captain must be and the nature of what he had brought with him. ‘Sigmar has brought them this far,’ Hartwich said. ‘I do not think we will lose either of them now.’

  Aldinger saluted the priest, satisfied with his answer. Wheeling his horse around, he galloped to rejoin his command. Hartwich watched him ride off for a moment, then hastened down the rows of tents and pavilions to where his own shelter had been erected.

  Throwing open the flap, Hartwich found himself looking on a man he hadn’t seen in nearly a decade. Captain Erich von Kranzbeuhler looked as strong and vibrant as the day he’d encountered an outlawed Hartwich in the backwaters of Reikland. Both of them had been beyond the law then – Erich had been a commander in the abolished Reiksknecht and a chief participant in the plot to overthrow Emperor Boris.

  More than the man’s escape, it was what he’d escaped Altdorf with that made him important. As Hartwich looked at him, the priest didn’t need to say a word. Erich already knew the question that was uppermost in the priest’s mind.

  Carefully, the knight unwrapped the bulky object he had carried across half the Empire, the treasure he had hidden for ten years in the wilderness.

  Hartwich dropped to his knees and gasped in awe as he found himself staring down at the holiest of Sigmarite relics: Ghal Maraz, the Hammer of Sigmar Himself.

  ‘We must keep this,’ Hartwich gasped. ‘No one must know. No one must see.’

  Erich frowned. ‘I thought you would bestow Ghal Maraz upon Graf Mandred. There are many who already call him Emperor. The warhammer would make that claim still more legitimate.’

  Hartwich nodded. ‘Yes. And that is why it must remain hidden. Be kept secret. We cannot allow its presence to be felt until the right moment. The man who holds Ghal Maraz can make himself Emperor, but first he must build the foundations for that Empire.’

  Beck scowled as he stood outside Graf Mandred’s tent, listening to the soft voices of his master and the Lady Mirella. The knight scratched at the scar running down from his missing eye. When he was irritated the old wound would begin to itch. It was a complaint he’d noticed ever since the liberation of Woerden. Of all the fresh scrapes and bruises, the ugly gash left by a spear in his right thigh, he found it ironic that an injury suffered years before should be the one to vex him.

  The graf! Beck couldn’t understand what his master was thinking, dallying with Mirella, a landless vagabond from Altdorf when Baroness Carin could be his for the asking. She was a woman of his own station, a ruler who would bring the wealth of Nordland with her. With the shrewd baroness at his side, Mandred could well and truly become what many were already calling him: Emperor.

  Yet he spent his few quiet moments with Mirella! It was a situation Beck couldn’t understand. Mandred wasn’t like other men, free to follow the whims of his heart. He understood that he was first and foremost the ruler of Middenheim, that when he wed it must be to the advantage of his people. Growing up, he’d been reminded again and again of his duty to the people he ruled. How he could forget that, forsake his obligations simply to lie in the arms of a…

  Beck left the thought unfinished. The graf might know what he was doing. He might be toying with Mirella in order to excite the jealousy of Baroness Carin. Yes, now that he considered the idea, the knight was certain he had the truth of it.

  To take his mind away from the voices inside the tent, Beck reached into his pocket and dug out the trophy he’d claimed from the skaven warlord of Woerden. It was a curious stone, when the light hit it just right it shone a brilliant green, at other times it seemed blacker than black. The skaven had worn it on a chain about its neck. Beck had taken it because its shape reminded him of a wolf’s head. As a good Ulrican, he’d taken that as a good omen and kept the stone as a lucky charm.

  It felt strangely warm in his hand as he turned it over in his palm. Absently, Beck reached his finger up to his eye and began to scratch at the scar.

  The old wound was itching again.

  Stirland, 1122

  Fear. Since becoming voivode and merciless despot of Sylvania, Count Malbork von Drak had thought he understood all there was to know about fear: how to evoke it; how to inflict it; how to use it; how to control it.

  Now, as he sat astride his warhorse and watched the obscene legions of Vanhal marching across the fields bordering Fellwald, Malbork appreciated for the first time how little he really understood about fear. His heart was pounding against his chest as though it would burst. His breath came in short hot gasps while the blood in his veins seemed to have been turned to ice water. He could feel his stomach churning beneath his mail, threatening to make him sick even before battle was joined.

  The Sylvanian troops had been positioned on the left flank of von Oberreuth’s army, delegated to the position of least concern to the grand count. Despite Malbork’s hopes that Stirland and Vanhal would decimate one another, his noble pride chafed at the blatant insult in such a deployment. Louder than any decree, the grand count was proclaiming his distrust of the voivode.

  The Great Host of Stirland was arrayed along the tree-line, its pickets clearly visible to the approaching undead, but not so far from the forest as to be beyond the defence of its thick canopy. Von Oberreuth’s troops were largely peasant conscripts, commoners drafted from every village and farm between Wurtbad and Waldenhof. They made for a sorry spectacle, their only uniform a strip of green tied about the sleeves of their woollen tunics, their only weaponry a shaft of sharpened ash or yew. The conscripts were ranked in great square blocks, living walls of humanity arrayed to deny the advance of Vanhal’s deathless horde.

  The real strength of von Oberreuth’s army was hidden behind and between the massed conscripts. Footmen, Dienstleute armoured in mail and bearing cruel maces and vicious axes, their kite-shaped shields quartered in the green and gold of Stirland. Horsemen, their lances held at the ready, their steeds draped in the panoply of war. Most impressive of all were the knights, their scale armour covered by gaudy tabards declaring the noble lords to whom each warrior owed fealty. Malbork had heard that the knights had been promised fiefs of their own should Stirland carry the day. Von Oberreuth was no fool. He was looking beyond today’s battle, preparing for the future when he might need a new class of petty noble to support him against the ambitions of the old aristocracy.

  In the vanguard of the army were the White Swords, resplendent in their snowy tabards, the plates of their armour painted a milky colour to match the coats of their magnificent destriers. The White Swords were t
he elite of Wurtbad, a martial society that drew its membership from the oldest Asoborn families. They were the paladins of Stirland, sworn to defend the province with their dying breath. Upon the nasal of each helm was daubed the sign of Rhya the Mother and Taal the Father, eternal emblems of the gods who watched over the Land Across the Rivers. Von Oberreuth belonged to the White Swords and had taken his place among the paladins for the coming battle. It was a gesture meant to inspire the army he led. Whatever dangers they must face, the grand count would face them first.

  Of course, those who followed the grand count wouldn’t have the benefit of two Morrite exorcists riding beside them, but that was a small detail von Oberreuth didn’t think they needed to know.

  Malbork turned his sceptical eye from the White Swords and his liege lord and instead gazed across the assemblage of troops that formed the Great Host’s right flank. He had to confess that Graf Mandred had dispatched an impressive force to aid Stirland. Two, perhaps even three thousand infantry, all of better calibre than von Oberreuth’s peasant conscripts, many of them rivalling the Dienstleute for quality. Here were hairy Middenlanders with cowhide armour and brutal mattocks, grizzled Middenheimers with chain shirts and steel swords, pale Nordlanders with barbed spears and tall helms, dusky Drakwald archers and grim Hochland axemen. A company of boisterous Ostland spearmen broke into bawdy song, defying the hideous undead with a show of scornful cheer. Their jest was muted by the sombre chants of a flagellant mob, blood dripping from their bare backs as the fanatics lashed themselves with scourges.

  The cavalry of Mandred von Zelt was equally diverse. Dour Verenan Templars draped in black, savage Roppsmen from the icy wastes of Kislev, the lightly armoured lancers of Wolfenburg and the heavy horsemen of Krudenwald. Like von Oberreuth, Mandred had his elite troops, in his case the crimson-armoured Knights of the White Wolf. It was easy enough to spot the Graf of Middenheim among his men. He alone was without the white wolf pelt that swung from the shoulders of his knights. Perhaps such an affectation was unnecessary. The men in Mandred’s army were already calling him ‘the Wolf of Sigmar’.