Blighted Empire

by C. L. Werner

  Vidor glared at his enemies, realizing how utterly he had fallen into their clutches. ‘What is it you want of me?’ he demanded.

  Baroness von den Linden smiled slyly. ‘One last present for you. The Protector is going to reverse his earlier decision. You will be appointed the new Reiksmarshal and given command of the army we are building.’

  ‘I need to use the veterans of your previous campaign as the core of this new force,’ Kreyssig said. ‘As soon as my programme began, I realized Soehnlein was out of his league. I don’t have time for my soldiers to adapt themselves to a new leader. I need a leader they already know and respect. That makes you necessary.’

  It was Vidor’s turn to laugh, appreciating now the reason for such gracious treatment from Kreyssig and his witch. ‘You must be planning to move against Talabheim soon,’ he stated, guessing now the source of all the inflammatory rhetoric that was upsetting the commoners and even ruffling the feathers of some of the nobility.

  Again, the duke was due to be surprised. ‘The enemy we prepare for isn’t Talabheim,’ the baroness said. ‘The real enemy is much closer.’

  Vidor was puzzled by her statement, and by the nagging familiarity with which she said it. Suddenly he recalled a sermon given by Grand Theogonist Gazulgrund, something about ‘the inhuman enemy in our midst’. Indeed, of late the priests had been making quite a point about warning their flock about Old Night and its monstrous progeny.

  What sort of enemy, Vidor wondered, was it that these two were afraid of? What threat hovered over them that they needed an entire army to guard against it?

  And, more disturbing, how soon did they expect that threat to be realised?

  Abin-gnaw bent almost double as he abased himself before Sythar Doom. The Warpmaster’s gemstone eyes reflected the green luminance of the warplight as he turned away from the piebald tinkerer, who was filing his metal fangs and cleaning them of rust. The Grey Lord’s lips peeled back, exposing those fangs in a threatening snarl.

  ‘Disturb me, murder-rat, and you will feed the burrow-worms,’ Sythar hissed. He started to turn back to the tinkerer when his nose twitched, detecting a scent that had been nearly stifled by rat-dung and skaven blood. He peered down at Abin-gnaw, noticing for the first time the trembling cloaked shape huddled beside the ratman. Now that he focused upon the figure, he could tell that here was the source of the scent – the smell of frightened human.

  Abin-gnaw had done an expert job of concealing the creature’s smell, hiding its presence from the other skaven in the warren. That didn’t, however, explain why the murder-rat had brought a man-thing into the presence of a Lord of Decay. Suspicion flared through Sythar’s mind. Had one of the other leaders bribed Clan Skully to remove him as he had had Deacon Blistrr eliminated? General Twych wasn’t keen enough for such insight, but Grey Seer Pakritt might be! Hurriedly, Sythar swung around, tilting his head so that his groom-mechanic could reconnect the power cable to his jaw. At the same time, he gestured wildly with his paws, waving his warpguard to surround Abin-gnaw and the human.

  ‘Great Sythar! Most Exalted of Tyrants! Most Potent of Calamities! Most Fertile of Sires!’ Abin-gnaw had his nose to the floor now, arms extended in an appealing gesture. ‘This humble-loyal servant wish-want to squeak-speak!’

  Sythar Doom’s fangs crackled with sparks as he turned. His electrified bite could burn through any garrotte the slinking murder-rat might carry. Then again, the killer might be clever enough to have something else in mind. Yes, it would be good policy for Clan Skully to use a poisoned throwing star and blame the assassination on Clan Eshin! Before the same idea could occur to his tinker-dentist, Sythar caught the hapless ratkin by the neck and dragged him between himself and Abin-gnaw.

  ‘Woe! Peril, Most Terrible Despot!’ Abin-gnaw wailed as the warpguard pointed their halberds at him. The murder-rat flinched away from the sharp blades. The human beside him moaned in terror and tried to bolt. Abin-gnaw must have noticed the motion out of the corner of his eye, for his scaly tail whipped out, tripping the man as he started to run.

  ‘Squeak-speak!’ Sythar Doom growled from behind the thrashing body of his living shield. The idea occurred to him that a dead shield would be just as viable as a living one. The tinkerer’s fur sizzled as Sythar’s metal jaws clamped down around his neck.

  ‘Man-things try to trick-lie!’ Abin-gnaw squeaked. ‘Kreyssig-man make army to fight-fight skaven!’ The murder-rat turned quickly, almost earning himself a jab from the closest halberd. Nimbly, the ratman seized the prostrate human and pulled him to face Sythar Doom. ‘Speak-squeak, Rati-man!’ he growled, kicking the human with his clawed foot.

  Shivering from head to foot, every hair on his body bristling with fear, Lord Ratimir, Imperial Minister of Finance, related to the ghastly Warpmaster what he had discovered. He told of the irregularities in the treasury, the diversion of taxes and tribute not towards the army but to bribes sent to Talabheim’s ruler, Grand Duke Cvitan. Even a human wasn’t stupid enough to send treasure to an enemy right before attacking him. No, that bribe was to convince the grand duke that for all the antagonistic posturing, Altdorf wasn’t going to march against Talabheim.

  Why, then, was Kreyssig building up an army? It wasn’t paranoid to guess the answer. With a snarl, Sythar Doom pointed his claw at Lord Ratimir. Abin-gnaw chirped in terror and dived away as the Warpmaster sent a bolt of searing energy from his hand into the human spy. Ratimir’s body crumbled into a jumble of charred stumps and blackened ash.

  ‘Kill-kill! Slay-slash! Burn-maim!’ Sythar Doom roared, glowering at Abin-gnaw. ‘Take-fetch all murder-rats!’ he ordered. ‘Find Kreyssig-meat and kill it!’

  Sythar Doom barely noticed Abin-gnaw’s genuflection as he scurried off to carry out his orders. The Grey Lord’s mind was awhirl with fresh plans, remoulding his carefully conceived intrigues to fit the changing situation. He’d have to cancel the assassinations of Twych and Pakritt. He’d need both of those mouse-sniffers now! The army that had been gathering under Altdorf would have to march at once, strike against the humans before they were ready.

  The Grey Lord’s fangs crackled as he licked them with his tongue. At least, he reflected, the warpcaster was finished. Unleashing the full potential of the invention in something more than a fratricidal field-test would mark a new level of achievement for Clan Skryre, would demonstrate to all of skavendom the enormity of their might and malice. They might even allow the other clans to buy their own warpcasters, with a few modifications so that regular maintenance by a warp-engineer would be essential.

  Exterminating several thousand humans would make quite an impressive demonstration. One Sythar Doom would make certain Vecteek and the rest of the Council didn’t soon forget!

  Middenheim

  Ulriczeit, 1118

  In all his life, Mandred had never imagined anything could be as dark as what he found filling the vaults of Karak Grazhyakh. It was a blackness that seemed to have mass and substance, a cloying presence that pressed in all around as the humans marched into the depths. He could feel the weight of the mountain above him, on all sides of him. The impression of walking into a vast tomb was almost impossible to shake.

  Entrance had been effected through a tunnel hidden beneath the temple of Grungni. No more did the prince have to wonder about what lay behind those massive doors. It was somehow anticlimactic, really. The dwarf temple had been brooding, ponderous even, but it fell far short of the megalithic construction Mandred had seen in the dwarf stronghold itself. Those regions illuminated by oil lamps and sputtering torches had been beyond magnificent. Great pillars of stone soaring up to meet arched ceilings in a seamless harmony that made him wonder if the dwarfs had carved them out of the living rock when they’d first dug the halls. Gigantic statues of ancient ancestors and mighty kings frowned down at them from niches gouged high upon the walls. Great stretches of runescript adorned entire tunnels, prompting Mandred to wo
nder what the Khazalid script said and what had been so important that the dwarfs had set it into solid rock to withstand the ages.

  No marching songs roused the humans into quickening their step as they descended deeper and deeper into the mountain. The same oppression of spirit that gripped Mandred was shared by those he led. Occasionally, the tones of a whispered prayer might be heard, but that was all. Some of them might have wondered about this world beneath the streets of Middenheim, but none of them had ever imagined they would actually probe its depths. To their credit, despite the fear that dogged their steps, not a man of his expedition turned back. Noble or Dienstleute, the soldiers kept true to their oaths. Not since that fateful ride to relieve Warrenburg had Mandred felt such pride, such kinship, with those he would someday rule.

  Would that pride withstand the real test, he wondered? These men had been told the sort of enemy they would face here in the dark beneath Middenheim, but could any warning really prepare them for the hideous reality? Would they stand before the skaven, or would they break and run?

  ‘A cheerless lot,’ Kurgaz Smallhammer opined. Marching beside Mandred, guiding the column into the depths, the dwarf cast a suspicious look over his shoulder. The same thoughts that had bothered the prince had likewise afflicted the dwarf. ‘Not a laugh, whistle or fart among them. If they’re trying to sneak up on the skaven they needn’t bother. The ratkin will smell them even if they don’t hear them.’ Kurgaz slapped the haft of the hammer he carried, a vicious-looking weapon he’d brought down from the temple. ‘Wish I had Drakdrazh with me,’ he grumbled for the hundredth time. Mandred rolled his eyes, bracing himself to hear another complaint about how Kurgaz’s younger brother Mirko had availed himself of the chance to bear the magic hammer into battle. Even now, he was down in the mines helping fend off the skaven incursion with Kurgaz’s preferred weapon.

  Fortunately, Mandred was spared the bitter relation of that story. With an abruptness that startled the prince, Kurgaz fell silent. The dwarf lifted his hand, motioning for those behind to stop marching. His normally gruff voice became a hissed whisper. Soon the other dwarfs accompanying the humans came dashing forwards, joining Kurgaz at the head of the column. There was a brief consultation, then the dwarfs fanned out across the tunnel, axes and hammers at the ready. Kurgaz turned back to Mandred.

  ‘Get your soldiers ready,’ the dwarf warned.

  ‘Trouble?’ Beck asked, the bodyguard as ever keeping close to the prince. The knight’s sword was already in his mailed fist.

  Kurgaz tilted his head to one side. ‘The rock sounds wrong,’ he stated. His eyes hardened as he focused on a particular patch of the tunnel. ‘Hollow sound. Like something moving behind the walls.’

  Belting out orders to the other dwarfs, Kurgaz unlimbered his warhammer and scratched a line in the floor with the iron toe of his boot. ‘This far and no further,’ he vowed. The fact that the oath was made in Reikspiel rather than Khazalid wasn’t lost on Mandred.

  ‘The enemy is coming, men!’ he shouted to the soldiers behind him as he drew his sword. ‘We hold them here. Steel yourselves. Let the fury of Ulric pour into your hearts. This is where we turn back Old Night and make its children wish they’d kept to the dark!’ The prince’s voice brought blades rasping from sheaths, jaws clenching in grim resignation. It wasn’t the defiant enthusiasm Mandred had hoped to evoke, but at least the men were standing firm. In the ponderous gloom of the Crack, he supposed that was more than he should have expected.

  The dwarfs maintained their vigil over the wall, a tense silence gripping the men who watched them. No one knew what to expect, and all were looking to the dwarfs for the first warning.

  Hearkening to every scrape and scratch their sharp ears detected behind the wall, Kurgaz and his dwarfs kept the Middenheimers aware of what was happening. When the dwarfs suddenly scrambled away from the wall, scattering a few yards down the tunnel, Mandred knew the attack was imminent.

  The wall came crumbling down, big blocks of stone tumbling into the corridor. Gritty dust billowed through the tunnel, stifling the torches and lamps the men carried, making the subterranean darkness still blacker. Through the cover of that blackness, inhuman creatures spilled into the passageway. Mandred could hear their scuttling claws, their bloodthirsty squeaks. He could smell their mangy fur and rotten breath. The skaven were upon them.

  In that first flurry of viciousness, the ratmen dragged down a score of soldiers and even a few of the dwarfs. The skaven exploited the confusion of their assault to the full, attacking with such savagery that many of their own kind perished in fratricidal thrusts of spear and blade.

  If the vermin had broken their discipline in that moment of horror, Mandred doubted any of his troops would have survived. They would never outrun the skaven and any sign of weakness would only embolden the monsters. Their only hope was to maintain the line, defy the panic that clawed at their hearts.

  ‘Khazuk!’ Kurgaz’s roar boomed through the tunnel, echoing from every wall and pillar. ‘Khazukan Kazakit-Ha!’ The war-cry was taken up by the other dwarfs, rolling like the boom of cannon.

  ‘For Ulric!’ Mandred added his own shout to the bedlam. ‘For graf and wolf!’ He lunged through the blackness, slashing at a figure he could only dimly see. There was no mistaking the skaven for anything human or dwarf, even with nothing but a shadowy outline to attack. His sword sang true, hewing through the beast’s forearm and eliciting a feral bleat of misery. A second slash of the blade had the thing flopping on the floor.

  Soldiers rallied around the prince, taking up his war-cry. Soon the shout of ‘wolf and graf’ drowned out the bestial snarls and squeaks of the enemy. With spear and axe, sword and mace, the men pressed the vermin back towards the wall. Fresh torches were lit, more lanterns were brought forwards and light streamed down the tunnel.

  There were well over a hundred of the skaven, with more of them spilling into the tunnel from a jagged tear in the wall. The ratmen were a motley sight, ranging from armoured brutes with black fur to scrawny, starved wretches with protruding ribs and only the simplest bone knives and wooden spears in their paws. However ragged and foul, the vermin fought with savagery, hurling themselves at the men with desperate ferocity.

  In those brief flashes when he wasn’t cutting down an enemy or shielding himself from slashing blades and snapping jaws, Mandred thought his force must be overwhelmed. The floor under his feet was slippery with black skaven blood, the bodies of dead vermin littered the floor. Scores, perhaps hundreds of the beasts had been butchered and yet still they came rushing from the hole. It was a vision from the hells of Khaine, the Murder God’s infernal legions boiling up from the netherworld.

  On, on they fought, until their arms grew weary from the killing, until their lungs sickened at the stink of blood and their ears were deafened by the wailing song of slaughter. Tears of despair rolled down Mandred’s cheeks. Pride in the valour of the soldiers beside him turned to bitterness in the knowledge that bravery could never stem such a horde. The skaven would drown them all beneath their swarming hosts.

  In the midst of his despair, Mandred’s blade flashed out and for once didn’t sink itself in furry flesh. Dimly he reconciled the shock with the vision in his eyes, hordes of ratmen scurrying back to the hole. Squeaks of fright replaced screams of battle as the skaven retreated, abandoning their wounded and dead.

  Mandred drew upon reserves of strength he didn’t know he had. Shaking the weariness from him, he rose and whirled his bloody sword overhead. ‘After them!’ he shouted, swinging the sword downwards, thrusting its point at the ratmen scrambling into the wall. ‘Let none escape!’ The soldiers, every bit as weary as their prince, marched forwards, a vengeance on every face.

  Before they could reach the hole, their path was blocked by Kurgaz and the other dwarfs. The bearded warriors were caked in gore, their armour foul with the blood of skaven. There was more than mere vengeance in their fa
ces; it was the genocidal hate of millennia, a fury that would be sated by nothing less than total extermination.

  Even so, the dwarfs barred the Middenheimers from pursuing the fleeing ratmen. When one incredulous knight tried to shove Kurgaz aside, the dwarf dropped him by driving the haft of his hammer into the man’s gut.

  ‘They’re escaping!’ Mandred roared at the dwarf. Had their allies gone mad?

  A dull roar shook the tunnel, not quite drowning out the shrill scream of hundreds of inhuman voices. A column of dust to rival what came before rushed out from the hole as tons of earth and rock slammed down to seal the fissure.

  Mandred and his soldiers were thrown to the floor by the tremor, blinded and nearly smothered by the thick cloud of dust. When he regained both vision and feet, Mandred saw Kurgaz still standing between the men and the dirt-choked crack in the wall. The dwarf looked like some horrible wraith, coated from crown to toe in grey dust.

  ‘Never chase a skaven into his burrow,’ Kurgaz said, spitting dirt from his mouth. ‘Other ratkin always make sure you can’t follow.’

  Mandred felt a chill run through him as he understood what Kurgaz was saying. The collapse had been engineered, designed to prevent pursuit. He thought of those terrible squeals. How many hundreds of their own had the skaven murdered with that cave-in?

  ‘You’ll learn, princeling,’ Kurgaz assured Mandred. ‘Before we’ve driven the skaven from Grungni’s Tower, you’ll be wise to all their tricks.’ The dwarf looked across the dirty, tired countenances of the other Middenheimers. ‘First thing you’ll need to do is work up some stamina. Can’t have you burned out after a small fracas.’

  Beck stepped forwards, tugging links of mail from the slashed edge of his coif. ‘That wasn’t their main force?’ he asked in a tone of piteous despondency.

  Kurgaz threw his head back in a booming laugh. ‘Just a skirmish!’ He jabbed a thumb at the floor. ‘The real fight is down there, in the workings and the deeps. This was just some larcenous ratlord with a sneaky idea to slip upstairs and nab some plunder before anybody got wise to him. If his own lot didn’t drop the roof on his head, he’ll know better than to try it again.’ Kurgaz turned around, swinging his warhammer up onto his shoulder. ‘Come along manlings, we’ve a long way to go. You can rest up on the way.’