by C. L. Werner
‘I will have the Kaiserjaeger ready,’ Kreyssig declared, snapping his heels as he saluted the Emperor.
‘Notify the Reiksknecht as well,’ the Emperor ordered. ‘Get the Schuetzenverein too, if you think they will be needed.’ Boris waved aside the objection forming on the commander’s lips. ‘I don’t want Engel’s protest merely broken. I want an atrocity. I want a massacre. I want the Altgarten painted in blood. I want such a slaughter that it will make the Imperial Council scream in outrage.’ The Emperor chuckled as he settled back against the cushions of his chair. ‘It will be regrettable, but with more troops, such a massacre could have been avoided. Enough soldiers could have controlled the situation without bloodshed. The carnage could have been avoided.’
‘You will ask that Altdorf be granted a dispensation?’ Kreyssig asked.
The Emperor’s laughter swelled to a malignant thunder. ‘After their cries of outrage over the massacre, none of those crowned fools will dare deny my request!’
‘What about the plague, Your Imperial Majesty?’ Ratimir wondered.
All warmth left the Emperor’s eyes. ‘When Commander Kreyssig wipes out Engel’s rabble, there will be no more plague.
‘Is that understood?’
It was late in the evening before Adolf Kreyssig returned to his home, a plaster-walled townhouse in the wealthy Obereik district. Directing a stiff salute to the squad of black-liveried Kaiserjaeger standing guard outside the building, the officer mounted the narrow flight of stone steps and entered his home.
Kreyssig’s mind was awhirl with the conspiracy he’d become involved in. It was a measure of the confidence the Emperor placed in him that the execution of his plan had been entrusted to the commander of the Kaiserjaeger. He took a cruel pleasure from that display of trust. While barons and counts waved their airs and titles in his face, the Emperor himself recognised the capabilities of a mere peasant, choosing Kreyssig, not some pompous duke, to safeguard the city. He had been chosen over the highborn von Schomberg to lead the attack against Breadburg.
He had worked many years to build the Kaiserjaeger up into the force it had become, but now all of his toil was beginning to pay off. The only obstacle to his ambition was his status as a commoner, but Kreyssig had plans to remove that obstruction from his path. Baron Thornig of Middenland was the key to increasing his station. Kreyssig’s spies had uncovered certain indiscretions from the baron’s days in Nuln, indiscretions that would, at the very least, heap infamy upon the Thornig name. Fortunately for the baron, he had a very pretty daughter of marriageable age, Princess Erna. The Middenlander was proving to be stubborn, but eventually he would come to see that the only way he would safeguard his position would be to give Kreyssig his daughter’s hand.
The commander smiled as he imagined himself elevated to the ranks of the nobility. Absently, he noted his valet awaiting him in the vestibule leading off the entryway. The short, fat functionary was visibly agitated, his face flushed with excitement. Kreyssig thought at first that Baron Thornig had finally come around, but there was too much anxiety tugging at the valet’s thick features for whatever was bothering him to be good news.
‘What is it, Fuerst?’ Kreyssig demanded.
‘Commander, I have been waiting for you for hours,’ the valet stammered. He raised nervous eyes to the ceiling, seeming to stare through the timber planks to the floor above. ‘The bell in your sitting room, the one you told me to always listen for, the one you said to wake you no matter the hour should it ring…’
‘Yes, Fuerst,’ Kreyssig growled, losing patience with the peasant.
Fuerst folded his hands across his belly, and stared apologetically at his master. ‘The bell started ringing four hours ago.’ He cringed when he saw the sudden fury that leapt into the commander’s eyes. ‘I sent runners to find you, but nobody knew where you had gone.’ The valet found himself speaking to Kreyssig’s back as his master rushed down the hallway.
‘Someone said they thought you had possibly gone to Mundsen Keep,’ Fuerst explained as he followed after Kreyssig. His master jogged through the hall, crossing through a lavishly appointed dining room and into a stone-walled kitchen.
‘Mundsen Keep is clear across the city,’ the valet said, still talking to his master’s back. ‘And by the time the messenger got there, you had already…’ Fuerst blinked as Kreyssig opened the door to the root cellar, stepped inside and slammed the portal in his face. He could hear the commander lock the door behind him, then his heavy boots tromped down the stairway into the cellar.
Fuerst frowned, mystified by his master’s actions. Timidly, he pressed his ear against the door. After a moment, he thought he could hear voices. One belonged to his master, but the other was a shrill hiss. Although he couldn’t make out any words, the tone of that hissing voice sent the valet’s flesh crawling.
It was some minutes before the voices fell silent and he heard Kreyssig’s boots tramping back up the stairs. Fuerst hurriedly stepped away from the door, snapping to attention as his master emerged from the cellar.
‘Fetch some runners,’ Kreyssig told Fuerst. ‘Ones that know their job better than the buffoons you dispatched earlier. I want to send new orders to the captains of the Kaiserjaeger.’
‘Is something wrong, commander?’ Fuerst asked, unable to restrain his curiosity.
Kreyssig nodded his head. ‘The Emperor has ordered an attack against the Altgarten rebels,’ he said. ‘It appears there are traitors within the Reiksknecht who intend to stand with the rebels.’
Fuerst’s eyes went wide with shock, his mouth gasping in disbelief. ‘What… what will you do?’
There was a cold glint in Adolf Kreyssig’s eyes.
‘Kill them all,’ he said.
Bylorhof
Kaldezeit, 1111
Frederick van Hal paused at the threshold of his brother’s house. His eyes focused a grim gaze upon the red cross daubed across the door. Nearly every house in the street had similar markings as the plague rampaged through Bylorhof, but the priest had clung to the hope that the Black Plague would spare his family. Now that hope was gone.
The priest stretched forth his pale hand and rapped against the marked door. He waited a moment, listening to the snow settle upon the thatch roofs, watching rats creep along the gutters, smelling the charnel stink of sickness rising from the town. He shivered beneath his black robe, feeling the warmth draining out of him. Annoyance flickered across his dour features and he knocked again.
The door slowly opened. Rutger van Hal stood in the entryway, his hair rumpled, deep circles under his eyes. Always a robust, virile man, Rutger had become almost as pale as his priestly brother. He mumbled an apology to Frederick, then started to close the door. The priest jabbed his staff against the portal, holding it in place.
‘Do not think you can keep me out,’ Frederick snarled. He slapped the palm of his hand against the cross. ‘Not because of that.’
Hardness flared into Rutger’s tired eyes. ‘One of us has to live,’ he growled. The priest pushed his way past the merchant, shaking the snow from his shoulders as he stepped inside the house.
‘Yes,’ Frederick agreed. ‘One of us has to live.’ His sharp eyes fixed upon Rutger. ‘You are the one.’ He raised his hand to stifle the protest he saw forming on his brother’s lips. ‘My place is here, Rudi. I have read much. I know more than just how to put people in the ground and consign their spirits to Morr’s keeping. Whatever help I can give you, it is yours. Do not worry about me. Every day I am exposed to the plague. If I was fated to die by the Black Plague, it would have taken me by now.’ The last statement was made with a twinge of anguish. The plague had wreaked havoc through Bylorhof’s temple of Morr. All of the under-priests and two of the templars had fallen victim to the plague. The other survivors had cast off their robes and fled the town, leaving Frederick as the sole custodian of the temple.
‘If it was me…’ Rutger began, then stopped himself before he could say more. ‘I’m sorry, Fr
ederick, but Aysha doesn’t want you here.’ He started to pull the open door wider. The priest’s staff cracked against the portal, slamming it closed.
‘Is she sick?’ Frederick demanded. There was a harshness in his voice that hadn’t been there for years, a harshness that surprised even himself. Aysha had made her choice long ago. That question was settled. He had no right to worry over the woman who was now his sister-in-law.
‘No,’ Rutger answered, his voice a hollow gasp, his eyes shining with dread. ‘It’s Johan.’
Frederick’s heart went cold when he heard the name of his nephew spoken in such a tone. However confused his feelings towards Aysha, he knew he had the right to love his nephew. ‘Where is he?’ the priest asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. The moment Rutger raised his eyes and stared at the ceiling, Frederick was marching towards the stairs.
‘You can’t go up there!’ Rutger yelled, hurrying after the priest. ‘Aysha doesn’t want you…’
Frederick rounded on his brother, transfixing him with an icy stare. ‘She made that clear in Marienburg,’ he said. ‘This isn’t about her, or me. This is about Johan and saving his life.’ The priest stormed through the little parlour, brushing past the porcelain and ivory the van Hals had preserved from their Westerland home. He started to mount the steps leading to the upper floor, but stopped when he found someone descending the stairs.
It was a ghoulish figure that met Frederick’s uplifted gaze, a plump-bodied man with scrawny limbs, his mismatched frame draped in a wax-coated cloak. The man’s face was hidden behind a wooden mask, its face pulled forwards to form a bird-like beak. Narrow green eyes squinted from behind the mask’s glass lenses.
The priest had never met this grotesque creature, but he knew him just the same. After their ineffectual courting of heathen gods had failed, the people of Bylorhof had turned to a new foolishness to save themselves from the plague. They had sent to Wurtbad for a plague doktor, one of the so-called physicians who specialised in treating the Black Plague’s victims and combating the spread of the disease. In response to their frantic call, Dr. Bruno Havemann had descended upon the town like a human vulture.
‘We are all interested in saving the boy’s life,’ Havemann’s muffled voice declared. ‘But the Black Plague needs more than prayers to defeat it.’ The plague doktor gestured with the copper-headed rod he held in his gloved hand, indicating the priest’s staff. ‘In Wurtbad and Altdorf, even the priestesses of Shallya have been unequal to the task. I fear that if the Goddess of Mercy cannot help, then what aid can we expect from the Lord of Death?’ Havemann shook his head, the beak of the mask bobbing up and down as he did so, sending the aroma of vinegar and cloves wafting about the stairway. He shifted his gaze to Rutger. ‘No, we must look to science to defend ourselves from this scourge. You did right, Herr van Hal, when you summoned me. The boy is very sick, but with proper care, it is my conviction that he may be saved.’
Rutger’s tired eyes lit up when he heard Havemann’s words. He rushed past Frederick, running to embrace the physician who had restored hope for his son. The doktor cringed from the merchant’s outstretched arms, fending him off with the point of his rod. Recalling the plague doktor’s abhorrence of physical contact, an abashed Rutger kept his distance.
‘What must we do?’ he asked in a sheepish voice.
The sight of his brother meekly deferring to Havemann brought Frederick’s blood to a boil. Angrily he slammed the butt of his staff against the steps. ‘Rudi! You’re not going to listen to this charlatan!’
The crow-faced mask shifted its stare back onto the priest. ‘Science can save the boy,’ Havemann stated. ‘Can you say the same of your god?’ The plague doktor returned his attention to Rutger. ‘I will need to prepare certain elixirs which must be given to rebalance the humours in Johan’s body. The plague is caused by black spiders, their poison is what brings the disease. It will be necessary to bleed the boy and drain the poison from his veins.’
The plague doktor paused, his shoulders sagging as a deep sigh left his body. ‘All of this will be time-consuming and expensive,’ Havemann apologised.
Rutger’s hand fell to the money pouch on his belt. The merchant didn’t count the coins he withdrew, but simply held them out to the physician. Frederick noted with bitter amusement that Havemann wasn’t so reluctant to touch his brother’s hand now that there was money in it.
‘The boy is resting now,’ Havemann said, his gloved hand closing about Rutger’s silver. The plague doktor rolled his wrist in a subtle effort to gauge how much he had been given. ‘Frau van Hal is with him. He should be given some broth when he wakes, but absolutely no meat. It might attract more spiders.’
Rutger climbed past Havemann, running through the upper hall to his son’s room, forgetting entirely the two men he left behind. Frederick couldn’t see the triumphant smile on Havemann’s face as the plague doktor continued his descent, but he knew it was there just the same. As he neared the bottom of the stairs, Havemann stared into Frederick’s face, waiting for the priest to step aside.
‘Take your money and forsake this imposture,’ Frederick warned.
‘You sound like all priests,’ Havemann sneered. ‘It doesn’t matter what god you serve, all of you resent progress and science. You allow faith to stand in the way of reason.’
‘Faith can move mountains,’ Frederick countered. The plague doktor’s eyes narrowed with anger. Using his rod, he shoved the priest out of his way.
‘How is faith at curing plague?’ Havemann asked as he stalked from the home.
Frederick turned to watch the doktor’s retreat. ‘Harm my family,’ he said, his voice a hollow whisper, ‘and you will find out what a man’s faith can do.’
Skavenblight
Kaldezeit, 1111
Megalithic in its proportions, the Abattoir was a relic of the dim past. Constructed from gigantic columns of limestone, the structure existed as a series of towering arcades piled one atop the other, circling around a central arena. In the time before the Thirteenth Hour, the structure had been at the heart of the human civilisation which once ruled over this land and had built the great city from whose ruins the decayed splendour of Skavenblight had arisen. The amphitheatre had been designed to seat tens of thousands of spectators, a testament to the power and expanse of its human builders.
What games and spectacles, what pageants and plays had once drawn crowds to the arena the lords of Skavenblight neither knew nor cared. Even the name of the structure had been lost in the dust of time. Its new masters had given it a new title, one that better reflected its new purpose. It was the Abattoir.
An arena that could seat sixty thousand humans was inconsequential to the masters of Skavenblight. Atop the stone arcades they had ordered new tiers to be constructed, rising ever higher above the limestone, each succeeding layer more rickety and ramshackle than the last. In their religious zeal, the ratlords demanded a further seven layers to be built above the arena, bringing the total to the sacred thirteen. The expansion made it possible to cram half a million squealing, squeaking skaven into the galleries. A deranged mass of braces and supports struggled to restrain the chaotic jumble of carpentry – rarely succeeding for long. With terrifying regularity portions of the wooden scaffolds would collapse, spilling hundreds of ratmen to their deaths. Twice in its history, the entire Abattoir had rumbled and groaned as all of the wooden tiers came crashing down.
Such catastrophes were taken as a matter of course by the skaven. Any disaster which affected someone else was of little concern to the individual ratman. The service provided by the Abattoir was too important to the denizens of Skavenblight to do without. For the weak and the downtrodden, the Abattoir offered an escape from the drudgery of their lives. For the more successful ratmen there was gambling and the thousand other vices that nestled close to the arena. For the Lords of Decay there was security, a novelty to distract the teeming hordes of Skavenblight and make them forget their hungry bellies and flea-infested fur.
Puskab Foulfur rested upon one of the stone seats lining the third ring of arcades. The limestone was worn smooth from generations of skaven crawling over it and the plague priest had to fight against the sensation that he would simply slide off and go careening down into the lower levels. He knew it was only a trick of the mind, that he was in no real danger. The dangerous seats were those below, close to the arena floor, well within the grasp of any beast or slave that managed to escape.
The plague priest lifted his grotesque face and scowled as a little body went hurtling earthwards from one of the upper tiers. He cringed as he waited to hear the groan of timbers and the snapping of ropes, but no such sound drifted down to him. The superstructure wasn’t collapsing – it was simply that one of the ratmen swarming about the cheap seats had taken a misstep and fallen. Or had been pushed, which was actually more likely. A network of posts and crossbeams rose above the stone arcades especially to intercept such falling bodies lest some prominent skaven be crushed by one of the hurtling wretches. The posts, however, didn’t always block a ratkin’s fall. Puskab breathed a bit better when he heard the crunch of the ratman’s body a few hundred yards to his left.
After escaping from Clan Mors’s killers and the intrigues of Vrask Bilebroth, it would be ignominious to be killed in a stupid accident. Or was that just what it would appear to be? Puskab squinted up at the wooden scaffolds, trying to gauge whether it would be possible to aim a body launched from such height with any degree of accuracy.
Puskab gnashed his fangs together. He was being paranoid. Vrask was gone, fleeing Skavenblight with his tail between his legs. Puskab had escaped the trap Vrask had laid for him. Knowing how Nurglitch would react to this attempt upon his favourite disciple, Vrask had fled before any action could be taken against him.
Still, Puskab was unwilling to feel too secure. Vrask possessed friends in high places, friends who had warned him before Puskab’s acolytes could come looking for him. And the traitor had allies outside Clan Pestilens. There was no saying how deep Vrask’s ties with Clan Mors ran, or how much he had promised them. Depending on what Krricht might hope to gain, the zeal with which his sword-rats might pursue Puskab could be considerable.
