Blighted Empire tbp-2

by C. L. Werner

  Von Reisarch’s face turned as pale as his white robes. The priest wavered, his attendants rushing forwards to support him before he could fall.

  ‘They might think the Sigmarite clergy was responsible for bringing the Black Plague upon us,’ Kreyssig continued. ‘They might rise up, tear this place down with their bare hands. Betrayal can make even the most loyal dog turn on its master. Then there are the other temples to consider. The wolf-priests of Ulric would be quite happy to see the Sigmarite faith abolished and, of course, the inquisitors of Verena are most zealous in their persecution of Chaos.’

  The arch-lector leaned against the altar, vitality seeming to visibly drain from his body. ‘It will take time to bring the other arch-lectors to Altdorf,’ he said. ‘Three have already been claimed by the plague. It will take months for the others to make the journey.’

  ‘Then you will do without them,’ Kreyssig said. ‘Issue a decree reducing their authority, subsuming them to the Altdorf temple. If you present it as divine will necessitated by the crisis threatening the faith, I think you can make them understand. A little power is better than no power, after all.’

  Kreyssig nodded his head at the scroll lying on the floor. ‘You seem to have dropped my proclamation, your eminence.’ He darted a withering glare at the vicar-general as the cleric bent to retrieve the scroll. ‘I want that pious blue-blood to get it,’ he growled.

  Chastened by the threat hanging over his head, the arch-lector knelt on the floor and picked up the proclamation. ‘Sigmar will not forgive this,’ he warned.

  ‘The gods are only as powerful as the Emperor allows them to be,’ Kreyssig sneered. ‘You would do well to remember that, von Reisarch.’

  ‘Is that a lesson you have already taught Lector Schoppe?’

  Kreyssig smiled. ‘He understands something you have yet to learn. You will either be my ally, or you will be my victim. It took some persuasion, but his holiness made the right choice in the end.’

  The distant tolling of temple bells sounded faintly in the distance as Adolf Kreyssig marched through the empty halls of the Imperial Palace. At such a late hour, there were few functionaries about; even the overworked clerks under Lord Ratimir had slipped away to steal a few hours of rest before poring over the records of tax revenue from the eastern provinces. Emperor Boris had imposed a fine against the Grand Duke of Stirland for the reduction in grain and timber tariffs being collected in the province. Excuses about some necromancer running amok in Sylvania had only made the Emperor more determined to see the fees collected. Allow Stirland an indulgence and every warherd raid or goblin mischief would have the other counts begging for a reduction in their Imperial tithe.

  A pair of armoured Kaiserjaeger flanked the doorway leading into Kreyssig’s chambers. Regarded as peasant rabble, Dienstleute by the nobles of the court, the Protector of the Empire preferred them to the more prestigious and esteemed Kaiserknecht and other knights at his disposal. It wasn’t so long ago that the Reiksknecht had been disbanded and outlawed. There was no knowing how many friends the outlaws might still have among the knights of the other orders. No, it was far safer to look to his own men to safeguard him.

  Kreyssig gave a brief nod by way of acknowledging the stiff military salute his guards gave him as he approached. Arguing with that pious ass von Reisarch had worn him out. As satisfying as it had been to sink the cleric’s superiority, it had tested Kreyssig’s restraint to the utmost. He’d dearly have liked to kill the priest then and there, but without the arch-lector’s subjugation, he knew he could never proceed with his plans.

  ‘Commander!’ Fuerst beamed as Kreyssig stepped into the lavishly appointed anteroom that separated his bedchamber from the hall. The servant rushed forwards to relieve his master of hat and gloves. Kreyssig shrugged out of his cloak as Fuerst ministered to him.

  ‘It has been a trying day,’ he told Fuerst. His face contorted in an expression of disgust as he considered how even with the threat of ruinous scandal hanging over his cult, von Reisarch had imposed conditions and terms upon his capitulation. The end result would be the same, but von Reisarch wanted these concessions so that he and his god might save face. It was a contemptible display of hypocrisy.

  ‘I am going to retire early,’ Kreyssig said, waving his servant away. Fuerst bowed out, retreating to the little door concealed in the side panelling that led to his own quarters. All of the Imperial apartments were similarly appointed, doors disguised in the panelling to provide ingress for wardrooms, servants’ quarters and other such unseemly places whose presence was convenient but whose existence was best unobserved and unobtrusive.

  Kreyssig withdrew into his chamber, sinking into sleep almost as soon as he lay down in the enormous bed.

  It was still dark when he was awakened. Groggily, Kreyssig stared up at the velvet canopy, a dim blur in the shadowy murk of the room. The temptation to retreat back into slumber was almost irresistible, but even in his semi-coherent state his mind was vexed. What was it that had disturbed him?

  The smell. There was a foul, animal stink in the room. That was what had disturbed him.

  It was a smell that wasn’t unknown to Kreyssig. Furtively, he slipped his hand beneath his pillow, reaching for the dagger he kept there. Careful as he was, his action still evoked a warning hiss from the darkness.

  Turning over in the bed, Kreyssig could make out a set of beady red eyes glistening in the darkness. The creature those eyes belonged to was only a dark outline, a black shadow behind the murk. He wasn’t sure which was worse, seeing the mutant or not seeing it.

  ‘I did not send for you,’ Kreyssig snarled at the shadow. ‘This is the Imperial Palace. You don’t belong here.’

  The creature chittered, a sound that was unsettlingly like laughter. ‘Kreyssig-man want-need talk-talk,’ the mutant hissed. ‘Friends of Kreyssig-man listen when he talk-talk with god-man. Friends not like-like.’

  Kreyssig snorted with contempt at the creature’s expression of displeasure. Was this sewer-crawling vermin actually trying to dictate terms to him? Angrily and without care for the mutant’s warning, he fished the dagger out from under his pillow.

  ‘I don’t care what you like and what you don’t,’ Kreyssig declared. ‘You should feel fortunate I tolerate you mutants to exist at all. My dealings with the Temple of Sigmar are my own affair. I employ you to spy for me, not on me!’

  The mutant growled at him from the darkness, Kreyssig had the impression of fangs gnashing angrily. ‘Kreyssig-man promise much-much,’ the creature said. ‘Gift-give grain. Want-need more.’

  Kreyssig fingered the hilt of his dagger, his skin crawling at the close proximity of the ratman in his chambers. He would never have given the slinking little beasts credit for such audacity as to violate the Imperial Palace itself. Now the loathsome mutants were compounding audacity with impudence. ‘You’ve already been given grain for your people,’ Kreyssig said. ‘Two storehouses. Enough to feed all of Altdorf for the winter.’

  ‘Want-need more,’ the mutant repeated its demand.

  A horrible thought came to Kreyssig as he listened to that monstrous, insolent hiss. Enough grain to feed Altdorf for three months, yet these mutants already needed more. If their numbers were as few as he’d been led to believe… But could he believe? How many of the verminous things were actually down there?

  Kreyssig shifted to the far side of the bed, setting his feet on the floor and taking a firm grip on one of his pillows with an idea to exploit it as a makeshift shield. ‘Why do you need more grain?’ he demanded.

  The rat-mutant chittered again. When it spoke, its voice was more measured, each word unhurried and distinct. ‘Need more grain. If Kreyssig-man will not give, then we will take. Need god-priest to stay dead. If Kreyssig-man makes new god-priest, then we will kill.’

  ‘Will you?’ Kreyssig cried, lunging forwards, his dagger flashing at the darkness. The blade slashed only shadows. The red eyes were gone, vanished as though they had been no more th
an a phantom. Before Kreyssig could consider where the mutant had retreated, light was streaming into the room from the open doorway. He spun around, but nothing more menacing than Fuerst greeted his gaze.

  ‘I heard you cry out, commander,’ Fuerst said, a cudgel clutched in one hand, a candle in the other.

  Kreyssig waved Fuerst inside, motioning for him to raise the candle high and illuminate as much of the room as he could. The two of them made a thorough search, but there was nothing to find. Kreyssig’s visitor had evaporated into the night.

  ‘You can go to sleep,’ Kreyssig told Fuerst. When his concerned servant lingered, he made the suggestion an order.

  Despite the disturbing visitation, Kreyssig wanted to be alone. He wanted time to think, to consider his dealings with the mutants, to balance his experiences with them against the dim fables of childhood. He wasn’t so sure now if his subhuman spies really were mutants. At least human mutants. The old legends spoke of other things, other things shaped like rats that could walk and talk and think like men.

  The cold clutch of fear closed around Kreyssig’s heart, that organ that so many of his victims had described as black and immovable. Now it was a sick, frightened thing, a thing plagued with doubt and foreboding.

  What if they truly were what Kreyssig now feared they might be? Not mere mutants or monsters, but the ghastly Underfolk themselves!

  Again he thought of those storehouses. He would have the Kaiserjaeger open them tomorrow, check to see how much the mutants had already taken. It was one way to estimate their numbers.

  Because Kreyssig was afraid that there might be more ratmen under Altdorf than he would find in his darkest nightmares.

  Sylvania

  Nachexen, 1113

  The satisfying stink of fear filled Seerlord Skrittar’s nose as he strode down the muddy lane. There was a panoply of other delectable scents in the air. The smell of grain and dried meat, cheese and bread. The man-things of this village had been quite industrious. The formidable palisade they’d erected around their village was a clear indication of how much they intended to keep the fruits of that industry. They’d been better armed than most Sylvanian settlements too, and better prepared to fight.

  None of which had, of course, availed them in the end. It never ceased to amuse Skrittar how much faith humans put into walls to protect them. It was only a matter of hours for Clan Fester’s skavenslaves to burrow under those walls and bring them crashing down. Before the man-things were fully aware of what was happening to them, the ratmen were upon them, cutting down those who tried to defy them. With the humans’ enemies already inside their defences, the struggle was exactly the way Skrittar preferred — brief and one-sided.

  Those man-things that had displayed the good sense to cower before the skaven had been spared, at least for a time. It wasn’t just the satisfying smell of their fear, but simply a matter of good policy. Man-thing slaves were generally stronger than their skaven counterparts, and when they eventually did wear out they made for much better eating.

  A little trickle of drool fell from Skrittar’s fangs as he considered the various ways man-meat could be prepared. He’d have Manglrr’s sword-rats fetch him a nice young human for dinner. The young ones were so much more tender, and their flesh seemed to absorb spices much more readily than that of older specimens.

  Turning his attention to the clanrats swarming through the streets, Skrittar lashed his tail in annoyance. Miserable tick-sucking wretches! If they could think past their bellies, then they might be worth something! These constant diversions to gather provisions were becoming intolerable. They were distracting them from their real purpose: collecting the warpstone. He hadn’t expended so much magic, arranged the martyrdom of twenty-four of his most powerful grey seers, simply so Clan Fester could traipse about Sylvania glutting their insatiable appetite!

  Irritably, Skrittar struck a passing clanrat with his staff, knocking the ratman into the mud. Before he could rise, the seerlord was snatching the radishes from the skaven’s paws. Spinning about, the clanrat stopped short of baring his fangs when he saw who had assaulted him. Squeaking with fright, he scurried off, leaving Skrittar to gnaw at the purloined food.

  As he digested the radishes, Skrittar became aware of a change in the air. There was a new tang to it, a rotten stink of spoiled meat and crawling worms. It was not unlike the reek the skaven had found clinging to those humans who died from the Black Plague, but this was much stronger. The grey seer was just starting to wonder if some of Manglrr’s over-eager vermin had excavated a man-thing bury-hole when a new smell crept into the air.

  It was the smell of fear, but far thicker and pungent than that exuded by humans. Skrittar knew that smell quite well, might even have admitted to producing it himself if such an admission wouldn’t be a sign of weakness. The reek was that of skaven musk, spurted from their glands in times of agitation. Why Manglrr’s mangy minions were frightened now, when the village was already subdued, was an absurdity the grey seer couldn’t understand.

  ‘Mighty-great seerlord!’ a shivering voice yelped. Skrittar caught the scent of Manglrr Baneburrow long before he saw the warlord. To smell one of the Council of Thirteen in such agitation brought a contemptuous flicker to his whiskers. Truly it could never have been the Horned One’s intention that such weak-livered mice should have a share in ruling the Under-Empire! Such conniving cowards were fit only for exploitation by their more intelligent peers. It was the main reason Skrittar had chosen Clan Fester to assist him in recovering the warpstone.

  Manglrr’s posture was hunched and cowed when he came scurrying up to Skrittar, the burly stormvermin accompanying him displaying a similarly meek and abased attitude. The seerlord was wary of accepting such appearances, but a whiff of their scent was good indication that their despair might be genuine. There was no question that the frightened attitude of their warlord had sent a thrill of panic sweeping through the ratmen ransacking the village.

  ‘Honoured mage-rat, Supreme Prophet of the Horned One!’ Manglrr whined, almost touching his nose to the dirt as he bowed before Skrittar. Such grovelling from one of the Grey Lords filled Skrittar with disgust… and not a little anxiety.

  ‘Speak-squeak!’ Skrittar demanded, wondering what catastrophe the warlord was about to relate. If Warmonger Vecteek had discovered this expedition, the whole of Clan Rictus might even now be marching after them! If that was the case, Skrittar would have to start thinking about how he could place all the blame on Manglrr’s tail.

  ‘Man-things!’ Manglrr shuddered, licking a carved toe-bone he wore about his neck as he gave voice to his fear. ‘Many-many man-things marching to village-nest! Kill-slay all-all try to stop!’

  In his terror, Manglrr was slurring his words, letting them trip over each other like any common ratman. Skrittar forced his own voice to be more controlled. ‘Man-things?’ he sneered. ‘You squeak like a runt dragged from its mother’s teat! Get your craven sword-rats over there and kill-slay! Must Mighty Skrittar do everything for you?’

  Manglrr’s fangs clattered and he directed a look over his shoulder. The panic that had set in was definitely spreading now, augmented by the ragged, bloodied skaven streaming back into the village from the outlying fields. It didn’t matter to the ratmen that they hadn’t seen for themselves what had caused their warlord’s fright. The musk of fear alone was enough to drive them into unreasoning flight.

  ‘Man-things,’ Manglrr repeated, one claw clinging desperately to the hem of Skrittar’s robe. ‘Won’t die-dead when sword-rats attack! Won’t stop-die! Slash-stab much-much, but man-things stand-live!’

  Skrittar glared at his fellow Grey Lord. It was so tempting to stretch forth his hand, conjure up a spell and burn the idiot’s head from his shoulders. What sort of insipid babble was he spewing? Man-things that his sword-rats wouldn’t fight because when they did fight, the humans just shrugged off their blows? It was too absurd to be believed. Even an orc respected a decent stab to the gut or a nasty slash t
o the back of the head, and there were few things tougher to convince to stay dead than an orc.

  ‘Fool-meat!’ Skrittar snarled, snatching his robe from Manglrr’s paws. ‘There are no dead-things! It is a human trick. They want to take back village-nest!’ A kick from the seerlord’s foot sent Manglrr stumbling back. Skrittar directed a warning look at the warlord, but he just sat on his haunches staring at the grey seer with frightened eyes. The seerlord gnashed his fangs in annoyance. ‘I’ll see-scent for myself,’ he growled, motioning with his claws for two of Manglrr’s stormvermin to lift him onto the roof of a nearby hut. Fortunately, they weren’t so subdued by fear that they forgot the advisability of obeying a grey seer.

  As his paws found purchase on the thatch roof, Skrittar cast his gaze down into the streets. The panic Manglrr had incited was everywhere — he could even see skaven discarding their plunder as they fled! The seerlord cast a sideways look at the warlord below, wondering who would replace Manglrr should he suffer an accident. Certainly it couldn’t be a bigger fool!

  A twinge of alarm crept into Skrittar’s mind as he turned towards the north, the direction the bedraggled war-rats had been streaming from. From his position, he had a good view of the fields beyond the village. The tall stalks of wheat were swaying violently, and it soon became apparent that what was disturbing them wasn’t foraging skaven. Through gaps in the crop, Skrittar could see human shapes, shapes that moved in a disturbing, awkward fashion.

  Squeals of terror from the opposite end of the village set Skrittar’s heart pounding even faster. Reluctantly, he cast his enhanced senses to the south, dreading what he might find. His projected gaze raced above streets teeming with frightened ratmen, swept out into the pastures and fallow fields to the south. There, ranked across the landscape, was an unbroken line of rotting humans. Silently, they marched towards the village; together with the fiends in the fields they moved to close a ring that would see the skaven trapped at its centre!