by C. L. Werner
Erna studied the doktor as he sat in the pew, his body shaking like a leaf. ‘You’ve seen what the sorcerer did?’ she asked.
‘Do not ask,’ Moschner answered. ‘By all the gods, do not ask and do not look.’ He turned his head away from the altar and regarded Erna. ‘I know I am a mere peasant, but you must believe me. Spare yourself.’ He shuddered again and his body heaved as his empty stomach clenched. When the spasm passed, he again apologised.
‘His Imperial Majesty has feted his guests,’ Moschner hissed. ‘He’s fed and pampered them well!’
‘Did none refuse?’ Erna pressed him.
Moschner gave her a disgusted look. ‘Two,’ he said.
‘We must pray for them,’ Erna said.
‘It’s too late for that,’ Moschner said. ‘There’s no help for us. The gods will have nothing to do with us now.
‘We are the living damned.’
Chapter XII
Altdorf
Brauzeit, 1114
Under cover of night, Kreyssig’s Kaiserjaeger removed the Baroness von den Linden and her paraphernalia to the abandoned residence of Lady Mirella von Wittmar. Mistress of the traitor Prince Sigdan, the noblewoman had fled Altdorf in the aftermath of the disastrous coup against Emperor Boris. Her townhouse had stood vacant and desolate since then, not even the most desperate peasant willing to seek shelter beneath such an ill-regarded roof.
The witch was far from her usual composure. Her appearance betrayed no sign of her recent ordeal. To the eye she was as ravishing and seductive as when Kreyssig had first met her. He wasn’t sure if it was cosmetics or magic that covered her bruises, but whatever the cause, the baroness’s vanity was intact.
No, it was a more subtle air of tension and unease that clung to the woman as she stalked through the dusty chambers of her refuge. She snapped curt commands to the men carrying her effects, alternately urging them to greater care or greater haste.
When the last of her things had been brought in, she drew near Kreyssig, gripping his arm in a clutch that was almost as cold as ice. ‘Get rid of them,’ she whispered into his ear.
Kreyssig bristled at the assumed authority in her tone, but his defiance wilted as he met her intense gaze. Clapping his hands together, he dismissed his troops, ordering them out into the street. When the last of them marched away, he motioned for Fuerst to close the great oaken doors and seal off the entry hall.
The baroness stared at the portly servant, causing a flush to creep into his face. Fuerst couldn’t hold her gaze, turning his eyes to the floor and shuffling his feet anxiously.
‘Fuerst is dependable,’ Kreyssig reassured the witch. ‘You can trust to his discretion.’
‘It is not I who must fear his tongue,’ the baroness retorted.
Fuerst bowed in his master’s direction. ‘I can wait outside…’ he started to offer.
‘Stand where you are,’ Kreyssig snapped. It was a small, even petty thing, but he wasn’t inclined to submit to the baroness’s demand. He had to prove, even if only to himself, that he could defy the witch.
Her jaw clenched, the baroness spun around and stalked upstairs. Kreyssig smiled and followed her.
The witch led him into what had been the master bedchamber. Now it was littered with boxes of books — the hastily removed contents of her library. She glanced at the boxes for a moment, then descended upon one of them like a hawk swooping down on a dove. Without hesitation, she removed the topmost volumes and retrieved a heavy tome banded in black leather. Watching the proceeding, Kreyssig felt his hair stand on end, discomfited by the uncanny way the witch was drawn straight to the book she wanted.
A piebald cat came creeping out from some corner as the baroness settled onto the musty bed sheets. The brute sat beside her feet, becoming as still as a statue. ‘He will warn us,’ the witch said, ‘if there are rats in the walls.’ She extended her hand, beckoning Kreyssig to join her.
Careful to keep his distance from the feline sentinel, Kreyssig positioned himself at the head of the bed. He glanced at the cobwebbed walls, unsettled by the woman’s mention of rats. Better than anyone, he knew the efficiency of verminous spies.
He was soon to learn how little he really knew.
The baroness laid the book in her lap, folding her hands across its cover. ‘You have heard of the Underfolk?’
There was an absurd quality in such a ridiculous question being asked with such grim severity. Despite his feeling of unease, Kreyssig laughed at the witch. ‘What child hasn’t been threatened with fables about the Underfolk!’
The baroness did not share his humour. ‘A truth too awful to accept is quickly dismissed as a fable,’ she warned. ‘The Underfolk are real, Adolf. They are what the dwarfs have called “skaven” and fought many wars against in their long history. They are the fiends that lurk and slink in the darkness, watching and waiting to usurp the realms of men.’
Again, Kreyssig laughed, but this time it was forced laughter. ‘Conquer the realms of men? Those disgusting mutants?’ he scoffed.
‘It has happened before,’ the baroness cautioned. She opened the tome in her lap, displaying pages of illuminated text. The words were written in a cramped, spidery script, the drawings crude and horrible. A glance at the frontispiece was enough to make Kreyssig’s stomach churn. ‘This is an ancient Tilean text, written before the time of Sigmar. In Reikspiel, its title would be The Tower Falls. It describes an ancient city of men, the most powerful in the world, a kingdom that shone like the sun. For all its might, for all its magic, the city was brought to ruin by the skaven, razed so completely that even its name has been lost to legend.’
‘More fables,’ Kreyssig declared.
The baroness shook her head. ‘Not fables — a warning. The book describes how the ancient kingdom was destroyed. The skaven didn’t assault the walls with armies. Instead they burrowed beneath those walls, ferreted out men whose ambition they could exploit. Meek and fawning, they offered their services to those who would betray humanity for power. Through their proxies, they set brother against brother, fragmented society until it festered with enmity and hate. Then, when the kingdom was sufficiently weakened from within, they rose up from their hidden burrows.’
Kreyssig scowled at the baroness. The fable she was relating drove too close to his own dealings with the mutants — the skaven as she named them. He couldn’t forget their demands for more and more food, food far beyond even the most gluttonous demands of the small handful of ratmen he had been led to believe dwelled beneath Altdorf. No, even without the evidence of his own eyes when the vermin had rescued them from the witch-taker, Kreyssig knew the creatures were duplicitous, pretending to be something they weren’t. It was all too easy to believe the baroness when she said their ultimate ambition was to visit ruin upon mankind.
‘If these creatures are what your book tells you they are,’ Kreyssig said, ‘then what does it say about stopping them?’
He could tell from the hollow look in the witch’s eyes that whatever knowledge was inside her book, how to overcome the ratmen wasn’t one of its secrets.
Kreyssig was silent for a moment, mulling over everything the ratmen had done for him. Had done for themselves. For the first time, he appreciated how the vermin had used him to their own ends. Exposing Prince Sigdan’s conspiracy, the treason of Reiksmarshal Boeckenfoerde, this information hadn’t been given to benefit himself or the Emperor. The skaven had done it to weaken the Empire. They had used him as their pawn.
Kreyssig had a peasant’s resentment at being used. He would pay his duplicitous allies back, and in their own coin. It would need bold, immediate action to salvage the situation.
‘Tell me all you can about these skaven,’ Kreyssig told the baroness. He glanced out the room’s window, watching the faint glow of dawn shining through the shutters. ‘Then I must arrange a meeting with the new Grand Theogonist. We will need the support of the Sigmarites in the coming battle.’ He favoured the witch with a cold smile. ‘It is
never wise to underestimate the ability of faith to motivate men.’
‘In my time of need, my faith faltered.’ The thunder of Auernheimer’s voice was muted to a contrite rumble. The witch-taker’s head was lowered, his eyes staring at the lavishly embroidered rug under his feet. His arms were folded across his breast as he sketched a half-bow towards the man he addressed.
That man leaned back in an enormous chair carved from a single piece of Drakwald timber. His jewelled fingers drummed against the clawed arm rests. When he spoke, Duke Vidor’s voice was anything but low or humble.
‘You worthless peasant scum!’ Vidor roared. He leaned forwards, clenching his fist and shaking it at Auernheimer. ‘I arranged everything for you. I practically gave them to you as a Sigmarsfest present. All you had to do was kill them. You admit they were in your hands!’ Vidor snatched the dagger he wore on his belt and angrily dashed the weapon to the floor. ‘Draw a blade and slash their throats. Nothing elaborate. Just kill them and be done!’
‘Death would not purge the evil,’ Auernheimer said, his voice still subdued. ‘The corruption must be cleansed, burned away by fire. Only that will appease Great Solkan.’
‘Old Night rot Solkan and all heathen gods!’ Vidor raged, rising from his chair. He stalked across the hunting hall, glaring balefully at the witch-taker. He pointed at the stuffed heads of boars and wolves that adorned the walls. ‘Dead!’ he snapped. ‘Dead! Dead! Dead! That was all you had to do. Dead, this scum Kreyssig would no longer be able to defile the Empire. He wouldn’t be able to profane the halls of the Imperial Palace with his peasant’s feet!’ Vidor sneered at Auernheimer. ‘He wouldn’t be able to transgress upon the sacred traditions handed down to us by most holy Sigmar.’
Auernheimer kept his eyes on the floor. ‘I have failed and I shall atone for my mistake.’
‘How?’ Vidor scoffed. ‘It was merest luck that my spies discovered that Kreyssig was meeting with the witch to begin with. Now he will have her hidden someplace we’ll never find her.’ He stared carefully at Auernheimer, a suspicion growing. ‘Don’t think you can attack the Protector without evidence,’ he warned. ‘If there is no evidence linking him to the black arts, you will be denounced as an assassin. The Emperor will have you drawn and quartered — when the Kaiserjaeger tire of torturing you.’
Auernheimer raised his head, turning a pair of cold eyes upon Vidor. ‘I am prepared to die for my god,’ he said. ‘I will not fail Solkan again.’ With a flourish, the witch-taker drew back his hood, exposing a bald head that was a patchwork of grey scars. Slashing across the scars, blood streamed from fresh cuts.
Vidor stared aghast at the fanatic’s display, finally tearing his gaze away. ‘Cover yourself,’ he hissed in a trembling tone before he remembered his noble bearing. Forcing himself to glare back at Auernheimer he added, ‘You are dripping all over my floor.’
The witch-taker replaced his hood. ‘The heretic must burn,’ he stated simply.
Duke Vidor grimaced at the remark. When he had conceived the idea of employing Auernheimer as his cat’s paw, he hadn’t realised the twisted mentality at work inside the man. He had assumed he was simply some charlatan, some opportunistic sadist playing on peasant fears to aggrandise himself. Auernheimer and his rabble had seemed the perfect instrument to destroy Kreyssig, able to act where Vidor dared not. If Kreyssig’s death were laid at Vidor’s door, there would be scandal at the very least. Disgrace and banishment should the Emperor decide to make an example of him.
Now, for the first time, Vidor was realising the mistake he had made. Auernheimer was no charlatan. He was that most dangerous of men — the true believer. His fanatical devotion to Solkan was no pretence, it was horrible, hideous reality. There was no outrage such a man would not commit if he believed it were the will of his god, and he would do so without a moment’s thought of his own life. That the witch-taker had failed once would only make him that much more determined to become a martyr and make amends before his god.
The witch-taker’s death wouldn’t bother Vidor, but if he should murder Kreyssig without the evidence to make even the Emperor incapable of punishing the Protector’s killers…
Vidor sat back in his chair, taking a firm grip on the rests as he spoke in soft tones to the bleeding fanatic. ‘Auernheimer,’ he said. ‘It does no good to kill Kreyssig. We must get the witch too. If we leave her alive, then she will simply bewitch someone else and use them to corrupt the Imperial court.’ He smiled as he watched the witch-taker’s expression fade from one of fatalistic determinacy to uncertainty. ‘We must leave Kreyssig alive for the moment, wait for him to draw her back out. Only when we can get them both can we act.’
Auernheimer looked undecided. ‘What of her daemons? The witch summoned a horde of daemons to rescue her. She may set such monsters loose upon the city if we don’t stop her.’
‘We have to find her first,’ Vidor said, his words slow, patient and patronising. Reasoning with the fanatic was like reasoning with a stubborn child. He didn’t believe a word of Auernheimer’s story about being thwarted by a horde of rat-faced daemons. More likely, Kreyssig’s Kaiserjaeger had burst in while the witch-taker was lingering over his superstitious rituals. Unable to admit that he had fled from mere men, Auernheimer had decided it was a host of daemons that had made him forsake his duty.
‘Leave things to me,’ Duke Vidor said. He reached again to his belt, but this time it was a sack of coins he tossed at Auernheimer’s feet. ‘Take that and find yourself a place to keep out of sight. When the time is right to act, I will send for you.’ He saw the doubt on the witch-taker’s face. ‘My spies found the witch once, they will do so again.’
As he watched Auernheimer walk from the hall, Vidor wondered about his own words. Kreyssig would be doubly careful now, and after his dismissal he had few friends in the Imperial Palace. The only one of any importance was Lord Ratimir, who had retained his position as Minister of Finance.
That a weakling like Ratimir could offer any help, however, was doubtful.
Lord Ratimir cringed against the wall behind his desk, his eyes clenched tight, every muscle in his body trembling in terror. He was like a frightened child, hiding his head under the blankets to blot out some nightmarish bogey in the innocent supposition that if something went unseen then it wasn’t really there.
Ratimir didn’t need to see the thing to know it was still there. He could hear its paws slapping against the floor, the scrape of its tail against the cold stones. He could hear its short, wheezing breaths and the guttural coughs it uttered. He could smell the rank, mangy stink of its fur. He could feel its abhorrent presence tainting the air, turning it to foul slime that dripped against his skin.
‘Rati-man,’ a monstrous, scratchy voice squeaked in debased Reikspiel. The words ended on a note of chittering laughter.
‘Go away!’ Ratimir pleaded. He could hear the thing creeping closer. He tried to blot out the memory of its appearance, of that verminous shape slinking out from the passageway hidden behind the wall. Desperately he tried to wish away those fangs and claws, the wicked inhuman understanding shining from those beady red eyes.
Unseen, the thing crept closer. Ratimir could feel its foetid breath against his neck.
‘Not leave, Rati-man,’ the thing squeaked. ‘Want-need speak-squeak with Rati-man. Can-will help Rati-man,’ the monster promised. ‘Rati-man can-will help,’ the thing added with a threatening growl.
‘No… No…’ Ratimir sobbed. He raised his hands to cover his ears, to block the sound of that verminous voice. He wailed in disgust as furry paws seized his wrists and pulled his hands away.
‘Rati-man listen-learn,’ the skaven growled. ‘Make Rati-man rich-strong!’ A chitter of malevolent humour rippled from the monster’s throat. ‘Or make Rati-man Rati-meat!’
Sylvania
Sigmarzeit, 1113
Here I shall build my tabernacle.
The words still sent a shiver rushing down Lothar von Diehl’s spine. After onl
y a few hours consulting De Arcanis Kadon, Vanhal had instilled a new purpose in the vast horde of undead. They had turned away from the northern reaches of Sylvania, marching back into the interior, circling down along the banks of the Eschenstir, past the battlements of Fort Tempelhof and into the verdant plain between the vastness of Grim Wood and the Grey Forest. For weeks the walking dead, now including the reanimated bodies of Lothar’s own army, prowled through abandoned fields and pastures, passing desolated villages whose sickly inhabitants cowered behind locked doors and prayed to unheeding gods.
Lothar had felt something akin to panic growing inside him as he observed the increasing desolation. The noxious star-stones that had rained down on Sylvania were more prevalent here, turning the land foul with magical emanations. He could almost see the vegetation withering, watch the magic seeping into its roots to twist and destroy. It was a blight that would never be erased, a corruption that would befoul these lands for all time. Even if the Black Plague passed, Sylvania would never recover from this poison from the sky.
Yet it was here, deep within this corruption, that the senior necromancer led his new pupil. Lothar knew better than to question Vanhal’s actions, even as he knew he must swallow his pride and accept the humiliation of a noble being apprentice to a peasant. The fallen priest’s power was too great, his sorcerous knowledge too vast to challenge. His only choice was obedience or death… And even death wouldn’t free him from Vanhal’s domination.
As he stared out across the plain, he could see the ancient ring of dolmens rising from the yellowed weeds and blackened grass. The weathered stones were a relic of elder ages, perhaps reared by prehuman hands. Even in such eldritch epochs, there must have been power here, a force that even inhuman minds had recognised and paid homage to. The Starfall had visited an inordinate amount of its fury upon this ancient site, fairly plastering the landscape with glowing black rocks, altering the very terrain with the magnitude of its celestial violence.
