Dead Winter

by C. L. Werner

  The belfry was just visible through the haze of sorcery, tilting at a steep angle away from the Shattered Tower, its crooked roof a shambles of cracked tiles and splintered beams. Octagonal pillars supported the steeply gabled roof at every side, forming narrow archways. Faceless gargoyles leered from the slender ledge which ran about the bases of the pillars, their toothless mouths open in silent roars.

  As Puskab hurried to climb the last few yards between himself and the belfry, the entire tower began to shake. A thunderous note boomed through the heavens, its dolorous tone causing the ratman’s bones to vibrate. The quivering masonry beneath his clutching paws flaked and crumbled, forcing him to dig his claws even deeper into the stone.

  A pause, a moment of silence, and then the deafening bellow was repeated, sounding across the night like the angry howl of a daemon king. The tower shook and shivered, the lone skaven clinging to its side struggled to maintain his hold against the violent clamour. Ears ringing, body trembling, Puskab clenched his fangs and waited for the din to be repeated. He understood what the thunderous scream was – the ringing of the Broken Bell. It would toll thirteen times. If he failed to reach the platform of the belfry by that time, then his life would be forfeit. Blight would be free to use any means at his disposal to kill the tardy challenger.

  Hissing psalms of putrescence and decay, Puskab scurried towards the belfry, moving only in those moments of shocking silence between the tolls of the bell. Five. Six. Seven. Again and again the Broken Bell screamed out the notes of Puskab’s doom. The plague priest’s heart hammered in his chest, his glands expelled themselves in a burst of despair. His fat fingers fumbled at the stones, his broken tail lashed against the crumbling masonry.

  Eight. Nine. Ten. The belfry seemed as far away as ever to Puskab. With each toll, the fury of the Broken Bell increased, the reverberations quivering ever more violently through the tower. A horned gargoyle snapped from its mooring, streaking past Puskab on its way to the street hundreds of feet below. A shower of cracked tiles came sliding away from the gabled roof, pelting the plague priest with stinging fragments.

  Puskab clenched his fangs, averting his face against the deluge, and struggled upwards.

  Blight Tenscratch was standing between two of the pillars when the bell tolled the thirteenth note, his eyes darting from side to side, trying to pierce the veil of miasma. A heavy chunk of stone, chiselled away from one of the pillars, was clenched in the Wormlord’s paws. He hissed triumphantly when he heard the final note sound.

  ‘Fool-meat!’ Blight growled. ‘Think-dare to challenge me!’ The Wormlord’s voice dropped in a peal of vicious laughter.

  ‘I am here,’ Puskab snarled, heaving his bloated bulk over the ledge and onto the platform. His eyes lingered for an instant upon the monstrous bell suspended beneath the roof, a great black mass of corroded metal, a jagged split down its side, strange symbols engraved into its rim. There was something unholy and unnatural about the Broken Bell, about the way it seemed to drain light from its surroundings, soaking the illumination into itself like a sponge. The effect was chilling and terrifying, setting Puskab’s fur on end.

  Alone with the horrible bell for almost an hour, Blight had become accustomed to its malefic emanations to a degree. Enough so that he recognised Puskab’s distraction and pounced upon it. The Wormlord hefted the heavy chunk of stone, hurling it at the distracted plague priest. The block cracked against Puskab’s side, its momentum nearly pitching him over the side of the platform. He yelped in pain, twisting about to face the foe whose presence he had almost forgotten.

  Blight chittered triumphantly as he saw the way Puskab’s arm hung limp and ragged at his side. He drew a fat-bladed dagger from his belt, twisting his paw so that light played across the edge. ‘I will wear-take your pelt,’ he growled. ‘Teach-learn all traitor-meat not to trifle with Clan Verms!’

  Puskab fixed the Wormlord with a merciless sneer. ‘You will suffer-rot, liar-fool,’ he promised. Awkwardly, he pulled his gnarled wooden staff from where it had been bound across his back, removing it with his left paw. His right continued to dangle at his side, limp and bloody.

  Blight didn’t hesitate. While the Broken Bell’s clapper was still swaying from the violence of its final toll, the Wormlord sprang at Puskab, lunging at the plague priest’s left side. His crooked sword slashed out, ripping through his enemy’s robe, blocked at the last instant by the intercepting sweep of the wooden staff. Blight used his momentum to rake the claws of his foot across his foe’s knee.

  The plague priest lashed out with his staff, but the heavy wood whistled through emptiness. Blight sprang away, coiling about one of the pillars with his twisted body, using it as a fulcrum to propel himself at his enemy. The notched sword flashed at Puskab’s head, crunching through one of his antlers. The Wormlord’s other paw shot out, latching about the priest’s throat. The cloth of Blight’s robe rippled as a long, creeping thing slithered out from under his sleeve. Brightly marked in splotches of red and yellow, a huge centipede reared its fanged head, poised to strike at the priest’s throat.

  Even as Blight’s malignant laughter hissed between his fangs, the centipede faltered. Its long antennae drooped, its legs became slack. Like a strip of gaudy ribbon, the bug flopped lifelessly from the Wormlord’s sleeve, its tiny organs unable to withstand the pestilential aura of the plague priest.

  Before the treacherous Blight could pull away, he felt claws digging into his back, prisoning him against the plague priest’s fat frame. Puskab’s supposedly useless and broken arm held him in a merciless grip. The Grey Lord struggled to bring his sword to bear, but was unable to shift past the warding length of the priest’s staff.

  ‘Now see-learn power-might of Horned One,’ Puskab hissed, leaning towards Blight, savouring the stark terror filling his eyes. Drawing upon the sickly magic of his god, the plague priest opened his decayed jaws, letting a froth of bile and blood surge from his diseased guts.

  Blight’s fur smoked, his flesh sizzled as the stream of corruption washed over his face. The notched sword clattered to the floor, the clawed fingers dropped away from Puskab’s throat. Howling in agony, the stricken Wormlord reeled away from the plague priest. Puskab lunged at his staggering enemy, leaping into the air and bringing his gnarled staff cracking down upon the crown of Blight’s skull in a double-pawed effort that had every ounce of his massive weight behind it.

  The Wormlord’s head shattered like an egg, blood and brains splattering across the platform. Blight’s body swayed drunkenly on its feet for a moment, then toppled against one of the columns. Puskab hobbled over to it, prying the lifeless claws from the aged stone. Vindictively, he pushed it over the side with the butt of his staff.

  When the council saw Blight’s broken body lying at the foot of the Shattered Tower, they would know that Puskab Foulfur was triumphant. They would know that the Wormlord was no more, his place as Lord of Decay forfeit to the Poxmaster of Clan Pestilens.

  Puskab leaned against his staff, gazing out across the sprawl of Skavenblight. By the gleam of the moons and stars, he could see the taller buildings rising above the fog. He could see the vast morass of the swamps and marshes beyond the city, the paddies of black corn and the rickety barges collecting their sickly harvest. He could see the distant lights of the man-warren called Miragliano and the far-off peaks of the Irrana Mountains.

  The sight brought an avaricious gasp from Puskab’s lips. Soon all of it would belong to Clan Pestilens, the marshes, the mountains, the man-warrens, all of it! They would bring the diseased glory of the Horned One to every corner of the earth! Nothing would oppose them this time, not the man-things, not the dwarf-things, not their own perfidious kind! The world would be crushed beneath the Black Plague, razed as it writhed in the decayed majesty of the Horned One!

  The man-things of the Empire were only the beginning. Two seats upon the council now belonged to Clan Pestilens. The balance of power had shifted. The plague monks could now counterbalance the do
uble-vote of Seerlord Skrittar all on their own. They would use that strength to draw other clans away from the heresies of the grey seers. And those who would not see the wisdom of embracing truth would suffer.

  A new world was coming.

  The world of the Black Plague.

  Chapter XVIII

  Altdorf

  Vorhexen, 1111

  ‘Kill him!’ The oath came snarling from the lips of Duke Konrad, his hand tightening about the grip of Beast Slayer, the sword which, like all the other trappings of rule, Emperor Boris had stripped away from him.

  The suggestion was taken up heartily by many of the rebels. A gang of Westerlanders raced out into the hallway, returning with the knotted cord from one of the tapestries, holding their improvised noose aloft with terrible purpose. The formerly defiant Boris Goldgather cringed against the side of the hydraulis, only Baron von Kirchof moving to stand beside him in his moment of peril. The swordless champion’s bravado brought a sneer from Count van Sauckelhof, who simply ordered his men to fetch a second noose.

  It was Prince Sigdan who rallied to the Emperor’s defence. Stepping before the enraged rebels, he interposed himself between them and their prey. ‘We can’t do this!’ the prince declared.

  ‘Kreyssig will be too late to stop us,’ Erich vowed. ‘They’ll execute all of us when they catch us. Regicide won’t make us any less dead.’

  Prince Sigdan gave the vengeful knight a look of reproof. ‘This isn’t about him, or about us,’ he said. ‘This is about the Empire. With the Palace in our hands, with the Emperor deposed, we could have played for time, built alliances. We’ve lost that opportunity now. We’ve lost everything.’

  ‘We still have that pig,’ Mihail Kretzulescu stated. ‘Killing him might not do any good, but it’ll make me feel good on my way to hell.’

  Again, Prince Sigdan shook his head and moved to retard the advance of the lynch mob. ‘Killing him won’t do any good, but it will do great harm. The unity of the Empire hangs by a thread and this scheming churl has seen to it that he is that thread. Kill him and you plunge the Empire into anarchy.’ The prince fixed his stern gaze upon Kretzulescu. ‘Tell me, without the Emperor’s promise that Sylvania will be made its own province, what will Count von Drak do?’

  Kretzulescu’s cadaverous face coloured as the question drove itself home. Almost embarrassedly he stared at Baron von Klauswitz. When he spoke, he addressed his words to the Stirlander. ‘Without the Emperor’s promise, Count von Drak would seek to seize independence through force of arms,’ the palatine confessed.

  ‘That’s right!’ Boris shouted. ‘Without me you treacherous jackals will be at each other’s throats! Like starving rats at the bottom of a barrel!’

  ‘If he abdicated, our stewardship would have legitimacy,’ Prince Sigdan said. ‘The other provinces would hold to the hope that all the favours Boris has promised them will bear fruit. No one will trust regicides.’ He turned and glared hatefully at Boris Goldgather. ‘The varlet’s own crimes make it impossible to kill him. For the good of the Empire, we have to let him live.’

  The sombre, horrible statement swept through the minds of the rebels. With a roar of impotent fury, Duke Konrad turned about and drove the Runefang into one of the mirrors on the salon wall, transfixing the reflection of the reviled sovereign. One of the Drakwald archers loosed an arrow at Boris, the missile striking the water organ he was sheltered behind, quivering in the wood as the Emperor ducked against the side of the hydraulis. Before the bowman could nock another arrow, he was subdued by his own comrades. Crying, the archer was dragged from the salon.

  Prince Sigdan turned on the ashen-faced Emperor. ‘Your word that these men will go free,’ he said. ‘If anyone is to atone for this revolt, let it be me.’

  Emperor Boris rose to his feet, grimacing as his shoulder brushed against the arrow that had so nearly ended his rule. ‘We, Boris I, Protector of the Empire, Defier of the Dark, Emperor Himself and the Son of Emperors, Baron of Kutenholz, Duke of Scheinfeld, Chief Defender of the Faith of Holy Sigmar, do avow that all those who submit to our judgement will be treated with honour and leniency.’ A cruel smile twisted its way onto the Emperor’s face as his eyes bored into those of the prince. ‘With one exception,’ he added.

  ‘You can’t trust him!’ Baron Thornig growled. ‘I’d sooner hand a knife to a goblin and ask it to shave me!’

  Prince Sigdan walked over to the furious Middenlander, setting his hand on the baron’s shoulder. ‘I don’t trust him,’ he said. ‘That is why we must ensure his honesty.’ The prince let his hand drop to the ancient metal of Ghal Maraz, feeling the slumbering power of Sigmar’s hammer crackle beneath his touch. ‘There is no symbol more sacred to the authority of an emperor than Sigmar’s hammer. You will need to take it someplace safe, hide it until you are certain Boris has honoured his word. Take the decree of abdication along with it.’ Sigdan turned back towards the Emperor. ‘You understand the conditions?’

  Boris Goldgather glared back at the rebel prince. ‘I have said I will accept your offer of surrender,’ he said. ‘Especially in one particular.’

  ‘Whatever we’re going to do, we’d better decide quick!’ Erich cried. From his place near the doorway the knight could hear sounds of fighting in the ballroom below. It would only be a matter of minutes before the Kaiserjaeger reached the upper arcade and the salon.

  ‘Captain, I rely upon you to get Baron Thornig and Ghal Maraz out of the Palace,’ Prince Sigdan told Erich. He turned his attention to Count van Sauckelhof, whose Westerland sea-dogs made up the bulk of the force which had stormed the salon. ‘Count, you will need to buy them as much time to get away as you can. Purchase it with blood if necessary.’

  The Westerlander saluted Prince Sigdan. ‘We’ll give them as much time as they need,’ he swore. The sea-dogs were already filing from the salon, broadswords and cudgels clenched in their fists. Count van Sauckelhof cast his gaze across the other retainers who had accompanied their disparate group. ‘I’ll be thankful for any volunteers,’ he said.

  ‘I will need only ten men to help me here,’ Prince Sigdan said when he saw most of the rebels moving to help the Westerland count. ‘My own men and four others,’ he suggested. Three of the Sylvanians and one of the Reiksknecht turned away from the doorway, leaving van Sauckelhof with a force of some forty men, among them Baron von Klauswitz.

  ‘Archers form up along the arcade,’ Duke Konrad called. ‘Pick off as many of Kreyssig’s thugs as you can before they get close.’ The Drakwalder bowmen saluted their lord and marched off behind the other defenders.

  ‘We’ll keep them occupied as long as we can,’ Count van Sauckelhof promised Erich as he passed. ‘Ranald guide your steps.’

  ‘And Sigmar watch over you,’ Erich told the nobleman, feeling his heart sink. There was no delusion about van Sauckelhof’s chances against the Emperor’s troops.

  Caustic laughter rippled across the room as the warriors marched out to the arcade. Boris Goldgather sneered at the assembly of rebels left behind. ‘You spend their lives needlessly. You have my word I will show leniency. There is no need for this subterfuge, I assure you.’

  Prince Sigdan ignored the Emperor’s promises. ‘You’d better be going,’ he told Erich and Baron Thornig. ‘As soon as the Kaiserjaeger liberate this jackal, you can expect them to come looking for you.’

  Baron Thornig bowed before the prince. ‘For a delusional Sigmarite, you’ve the heart of an Ulrican,’ he said. His hairy hand patted the haft of Ghal Maraz. ‘Don’t worry, the only way they take this trinket back is by prying it from my cold dead hands.’

  ‘You should come with us,’ Erich insisted, tears in his voice. ‘That maggot will never keep his word.’

  ‘He might,’ Prince Sigdan told him, ‘if you two quit gabbing and get Ghal Maraz somewhere he can’t find it.’ A wry smile flickered on his face and he jabbed his thumb towards the captive sovereign and his retainers. ‘Besides, somebody has to stay here and play nur
semaid.’

  Erich’s spirit was leaden as he turned and strode from the salon. For the second time, he was abandoning a brave man, a man he looked up to as leader and lord, to a cruel and merciless fate.

  Grim in their black livery, the Kaiserjaeger trooped into the Harmony Salon, immediately confiscating weapons from the rebels. They had listened to the shouts of combat ringing across the arcade. The fight was over in a hideously short time. The answer for the brevity of the battle marched into the salon beside a vengeful Adolf Kreyssig.

  Baron von Klauswitz had turned against his fellow conspirators. In the heat of battle, he and his Stirlanders had turned against the others, throwing the rebel ranks into confusion. Victory for the Kaiserjaeger had swiftly followed.

  The other rebels glared at the double-traitor. Von Klauswitz squirmed under their gaze, keeping close to the immense bulk of Gottwald Drechsler, as though seeking protection from the vicious executioner.

  ‘You are unharmed, your Imperial Majesty?’ Kreyssig asked as he made his way across the salon.

  Emperor Boris stepped out from behind the water organ, his expression shifting from relief to undisguised malignance. ‘Our dignity has been impugned, but we are unwounded,’ he said. His lip curled in a sneer as he watched the Kaiserjaeger disarming his former captors. He shifted his gaze to Drechsler. ‘You will be a busy man, Scharfrichter.’

  The cold words brought a howl of rage from Duke Konrad. The Drakwalder hurled himself at the smirking sovereign, but before he could close with his hated foe, he was clubbed down by Baron von Kirchof. The duke’s blood dripped from the gilded pommel of Beast Slayer, which the Emperor’s Champion had recovered from the mirrored wall.

  Emperor Boris shook his head reprovingly. ‘That is a poor show, baron,’ he said. ‘Duke Konrad is a Hohenbach. His blood is my blood. His home is my home.’ He turned his attention to the bloodied nobleman. ‘I am afraid I cannot let a mere duke possess so fine a weapon as a Runefang. Therefore, in my capacity as Emperor, I hereby instate you as Count Konrad Aldrech, Grand Count of Drakwald.’ He laughed as he saw the look of incredulity spread across his kinsman’s features. The laughter ended with a vituperative hiss.