Blighted Empire

by C. L. Werner

  Beneath him, he felt the ancient majesty of Graug the Terrible – a primal force of almost elemental fury revivified as nothing more than a puppet, an extension of some small fragment of the necromancer’s will. At his merest whim, the zombified beast would lash out with its claw and extinguish a dozen lives or bring withering death to scores with a blast of corrupt gases and wormy meat. Spears and swords crumpled against the wyrm’s armoured hide, and those few that did pierce became lodged in rotten, unfeeling flesh. Hundreds of monstrous creatures swarmed about the dragon, yet they were as helpless and puny as ants.

  This, Lothar imagined, must be how Vanhal felt. The raw power of annihilation coursing through his mind and soul, waiting there just beneath the surface, lurking unseen and unguessed until it was called upon. No wonder the necromancer was so contemptuous of conquest and dominance. Truly, what was the power of an Emperor beside that of a living god?

  Lothar reached out with his hand, plucking a squirming ratman from the horde arrayed around him. Coldly, he sent tendrils of necromantic energy slashing at the creature, stripping its fur away in ribbons, leaving wet bones glistening in the starlight. He could feel every inch of the creature as death spread through its mangled frame, savouring it as he once might have savoured a Mootland delicacy.

  That a low-born peasant such as Vanhal should unlock this miraculous potential within him was something that no longer stung Lothar’s pride. It was enough that the potential had been unlocked. Glutted on the power flowing through him, the baron hadn’t even felt slighted when Vanhal relinquished control of Graug to him and dispatched him to confront the skaven. Anything that would maintain this power, any impudence or insult was of no consequence. Nothing mattered, nothing except this power!

  The baron felt his skin wither against his bones. Flesh, he thought with contempt. Such a poor vessel to clothe the indomitable will of a soul such as his. The flame of mortality was too weak a candle to illuminate the great secret. He could see it now, as he sent phantom energies searing into the ratmen, each death fitting another piece into the cosmic puzzle. All he must do was extend his power a little further, commit those last reserves that sustained him, and he would see it all!

  A blast of aethyric malignance slammed into Lothar von Diehl, causing the magical shield he had woven about himself to flicker. The impact sent blood flowing from his ears, nearly pitching him from Graug’s mighty shoulders. Dazed, the necromancer shook his head. The reckless, drunken excess of a moment before evaporated as logic subsumed emotion within his mind. Horror flowed through him as he appreciated where his power-crazed desire had nearly led him. Flesh might be a poor vehicle for such power, but it was the only one he had.

  Another lash of green lightning smacked into Lothar’s defences. He spun around, focusing his attention on draining off the malevolent energies. To his witchsight, the lightning left behind it a glowing ribbon of magic, a trajectory he followed back to its source. What he saw was a blazing bubble of deranged energies, a confusion of aethyric vibrations banded and bound by a crazed medley of strange sigils and bizarre runes. At the centre of that energy was a ramshackle altar mounted on a wheeled platform. A great bell stood above the altar, its clapper shining like a knot of concentrated magic. Above the bell, a horned ratman capered and gestured, energies whipping about it as it snarled and chittered.

  Lothar sneered as he saw the skaven sorcerer. He was indebted to the monster for breaking him from his trance. Now he would reward the filthy brute with a quick death. Extending a fraction of his power, he willed Graug into the air, the dragon’s tattered pinions smashing low scores of ratmen as it took wing. The dragon’s headless bulk soared above the battlefield, hurtling with meteoric fury towards the enemy warlock.

  A doleful note rang out as the dragon dived towards the skaven sorcerer. Lothar recoiled as a blast of arcane energy smashed into him, crushing him against the dragon’s scaly shoulder. His ears rang, blood streamed from his nose as the sorcerous cacophony from the hellish bell struck. He could feel scaly plates and blobs of meat tear from Graug’s rotten hide. The dragon reared back, its wings fanning the air, its claws scraping against an invisible shell of sorcery.

  Lothar stared incredulously at the horned ratman, watched in horror as the infernal bell drew back to strike another note. The power of the thing was atrocious, far beyond the aethyric harmonies crackling about the creature. With something approaching fright, he commanded the dragon to lash out with its decayed breath.

  The mixture of corpse-gas and maggot-broth spattered across the skaven pushing the bell. Scores of the creatures collapsed, writhing in their death agonies. Yet still the altar and the hideous creature perched atop it remained unscathed. Lothar just had time to digest that fact when the bell tolled again. This time he could see the energy erupt from the clapper and snake its way upwards into the ratman’s staff. A lance of searing light crackled from the horned tip, stabbing across the sky.

  Even the dragon’s mighty frame shook beneath such an assault. The beast’s breast exploded in a burst of splintered scales and shattered bone, its left wing nearly sheared from its body. The behemoth plummeted from the sky, slamming into the swarming skaven below, crushing dozens beneath its bulk. The reptilian zombie shuddered and fell still as the eldritch animation motivating it flickered away.

  Lothar fared little better. A shattered arm, a broken leg, these were the marks of his own descent. He could feel the shock of the impact in his throbbing bones. Pain pulsed through his body, reverberating through his withered veins. It was an effort to force some manner of coherence into the confusion of thoughts that swirled about inside his skull. His ears still ringing from the dolorous notes of the bell, he couldn’t hear his own incantations as he tried to reanimate the dead dragon. A crackle of green lightning scorched the night, driving him to shelter behind Graug’s immense claw. The skaven warlock, it seemed, was intent on finishing the job.

  Lothar forced a small measure of control back into his senses, driving the distracting buzz from his head. He could hear now the triumphant squeaks of the enemy, rejoicing in the destruction of the dragon. With Graug eliminated, their victory seemed assured.

  To Lothar, it was inexplicable. Vanhal had so much power at his command, how could he allow himself to be overwhelmed by these vermin?

  Then, into the baron’s ears came new sounds. The triumphant chittering was replaced by squeals of panic. An almost arctic chill gripped Lothar, the residue of some mighty sorcery. Raising his eyes skywards, he marvelled at what he saw.

  Graug wasn’t the focus of Vanhal’s conjurations. The undead dragon had simply been a small fragment, a distraction to delay the enemy. The true enormity of Vanhal’s power was only now appearing in the sky over Vanhaldenschlosse.

  Again, Lothar was humbled by the limitations of his own comprehension. He had thought the summoning and control of a single zombie dragon was a power that should set him amongst the gods.

  What words, then, to describe a force that had called scores of the beasts back from the dead?

  Chapter XVII

  Middenheim

  Ulriczeit, 1118

  Lady Mirella stood on the veranda overlooking the marshalling yard within the walls of the Middenpalaz. It was here that Prince Mandred had assembled his expedition into the heart of the Ulricsberg before marching off to the temple of Grungni on the other side of the city.

  She had watched them go, every man filled with a grim determination to do his duty, to lay down his life in the name of justice and goodness, to defend civilisation against the monstrous creatures of Old Night. Mirella knew she should have found it an inspiring sight, should have felt pride when she had gazed down into Mandred’s face and seen that noble resolve etched across each line and curve. He had saluted her, before turning to lead the soldiers away, a gesture as heavy with meaning as that of a Bretonnian knight seeking a damsel’s favour.

  Mirella hadn’t been able to
acknowledge Mandred’s show of affection. Quickly she had turned away, unwilling to let him see the dread in her eyes. For she had seen other men, moved by similar motives of justice and goodness. Right had been on their side, their enemy no less monstrous than these fiends from beneath the world. Despite the nobility of their cause, the selfless virtue in their ambitions, they had failed. Death, not victory, had been the price Prince Sigdan and his allies had paid for defying Emperor Boris.

  Watching another prince, another man she loved marching off to battle had been more than she could bear. Mirella cursed her weakness, berated herself for the fear that clawed at her heart. Yet try as she might, her courage had deserted her. She thought of that horrible moment, in the sewer beneath Altdorf when they had fled Kreyssig’s Kaiserjaeger, that terrifying moment when the rats had swarmed all around them in the dank filth. If she closed her eyes she could still feel their loathsome touch, hear their scurrying, chittering tide rushing through her ears. It was an awful, nightmarish memory, but how pleasant compared to the horror of what Mandred now sought to confront. Hordes of vermin, not mere rats but creatures of malignant intelligence and abominable spirit, things of Chaos spat up by the black pits of the earth!

  No, Mirella had been unable to watch as the army moved off. By the same token, she was unable to leave now that they were gone. She lingered upon the veranda, staring out into the empty square, picturing that last sight of Mandred as he waved to her. She had feared he would resent her, would feel she was somehow responsible for Sofia’s illness and death. Whatever feelings had developed between her and the prince, she worried that he would deny them in his mourning, reject them afterwards from a sense of guilt. Even so slight a gesture of regard gave her some hope that Mandred’s heart was yet tender towards her.

  Such a foolish, selfish thing to ponder when the fate of Middenheim itself was in question. Perhaps the whole of the Empire, for where but in the City of the White Wolf could the strength be found to rebuild the shambles left by Boris Goldgather? The fate of mankind lingered at the edge of darkness, yet she was worried about…

  Perspective asserted itself upon Mirella’s reflections in the most dramatic and hideous manner she could have imagined. Down in the yard, among the paving stones, a heavy iron grate shuddered in its fastenings, the cover of a drain. The motion drew her attention, but as her eyes focused on the grate, she recoiled in fright. There were fingers clutching at the grate from beneath – furry, clawed talons. Something was down in the drain seeking to escape!

  Before she could cry out, Mirella saw the cover flung upwards. Even as the grate clattered against the stones, a lean figure lunged up from the drain. She had seen that revolting carcass Kurgaz had thrown before the graf’s councillors. She recognized this thing for another of that breed.

  Mirella cringed away from the sight, stumbling back against the palace wall as more and more of the beasts boiled up into the yard. Faintly, she could hear shouts and screams echoing from the city beyond the walls of the Middenpalaz. The thought that this scene must be repeating itself all across Middenheim spurred her to action. It wasn’t courage that drove her, but terror of the most dire cast.

  The woman’s scream turned rodent heads upwards, caused beady eyes to narrow. The skaven froze for an instant, like so many rats startled by a sudden candle. The instant passed, the monsters scattered, leaping at the walls where human guards had been alerted by the shriek. Several of the guards were shot down before they could even raise their weapons, picked off by ratkin snipers armed with long jezzails.

  A few of the vermin rushed at the palace itself, launching themselves from the yard in an effort to reach the veranda. Most of the creatures fell short, crashing back to earth with snarls and squeaks. One of the monsters, however, caught the balustrade with its paws. Briefly its legs scrabbled at the edge of the veranda, then it was pulling itself upwards, fangs bared in a vicious snarl.

  Mirella found herself unable to move, unable to do anything but gaze in horror at that verminous face. The skaven chittered at her. She could see the muscles under its piebald fur tense as it prepared to spring at her.

  Death caught the ratman before it could attack. A ball of spiked steel slammed into its face, splitting its skull and sending a spray of fangs and blood across the veranda. Brother Richter swung the footman’s mace he held a second time and sent the corpse tumbling down into the yard. In the next instant, the priest grabbed Mirella and pulled her inside the palace.

  Dazed, confused by her astounding escape, Mirella was slow to appreciate the bloodstains on the cleric’s robe or the sounds of conflict echoing through the interior of the Middenpalaz. Then it struck her. What she had seen in the yard must be happening everywhere, anywhere there was a grate or drain leading into the sewers. The skaven were bypassing every fortification in the city by attacking from below!

  ‘Graf Gunthar is rallying his warriors,’ Richter was telling her as he helped a cluster of servants barricade the door opening onto the veranda. ‘They’ve fought their way down to the cellars and are closing up the entrances!’

  Mirella listened to the priest, but his words made little impact on her. Her thoughts were somewhere else. If the skaven were able to reach the city, if they had already prevailed below…

  ‘What about Mandred?’ she gasped.

  Brother Richter shook his head. ‘The graf believes it was a trap to draw the army below. The skaven must have been waiting.

  ‘Prince Mandred must be dead.’

  ‘Khazuk!’ Kurgaz bellowed, staving in the face of a ratman with the head of his hammer. The dwarf laughed boisterously as the carcass went flying backwards, toppling several of the skaven behind it.

  Mandred slashed the throat of the monster he fought, nearly decapitating it. ‘A fine cast, friend Smallhammer.’

  Kurgaz cracked the skull of one of the skaven that had tripped over the corpse of his previous victim. A fierce shout sent several others scurrying away in fright. ‘That’s naught,’ he grumbled. ‘You should see me with the real thing!’

  It didn’t take any explanation for Mandred to know what the dwarf was talking about. It was impossible not to note the fearsome power of Drakdrazh. The temptation to sit back and watch Kurgaz’s brother ply the enchanted hammer back and forth among the vermin was almost overwhelming. It was like seeing one of the dwarf ancestor gods in action. Mandred couldn’t help but think of Ghal Maraz, the Hammer of Sigmar, and its legendary might. He wondered where the outlaw knight had taken it after it was stolen from Emperor Boris. He wondered if he would ever see it wielded in battle as he now saw Drakdrazh being wielded.

  The dwarfs were already locked in pitched battle when the Middenheimers reached the caverns and mines of what the denizens of Karak Grazhyakh called the Fourth Deep. Skaven had swarmed up from the smaller shafts and tunnels radiating out from the Fourth Deep. Fighter for fighter, the ratmen were vastly inferior to the rugged dwarfs, their crude armour and scavenged weapons woefully primitive beside the steel plate and keen axes of their foes. The dwarfs, however, were unable to match the speed of the ratkin, an advantage that enabled the skaven to bring their prodigious numbers to bear upon the foe. The dwarfs presented a solid rock, steady and impenetrable, but the skaven were like a raging sea, sweeping in from every quarter to pound at their defences.

  How easy it would have been to lose heart when they reached the battle, when they saw the seemingly endless horde flooding through the great hall, scurrying across overturned mine carts and scampering down skeletal gantries. It was one thing to hear how numerous their foe was, but to see it before one’s eyes was a thing terrible to contemplate. Mandred felt his own heart buckle when he saw that verminous sea crashing around the small knots of embattled dwarfs scattered through the cavern. Yet seeing those doughty warriors, unperturbed despite being outnumbered and surrounded, combating their enemy with a stubborn defiance, made an even greater impression. Watching a grizzled old dwarf
smoking calmly on his pipe as he mashed ratmen with his axe, or listening to a young beardling singing a Khazalid tune as he plied his hammer sent a fire coursing through their veins. Such courage in such conditions was a magnificence of valour that belonged in legend. No man could abandon such courage to be overwhelmed and destroyed. Whatever time he bought by such abject cowardice wouldn’t be life, but merely a hollow existence of shame.

  To a man, the Middenheimers had charged into the Fourth Deep, the fatigue of their long march forgotten as the roar of battle thundered through them. Shouting ‘wolf and graf!’ they had fallen upon the flank of the skaven horde. The ratmen, already locked in combat, were taken by surprise, forced to give ground before the humans.

  If they prevailed, they would be hailed as heroes when they returned to the surface, paraded through Middenheim as champions of order and light. If they could turn the skaven back here, they would break the siege of their homes before it could even start.

  The tide of battle was turning against the skaven. Steadily the humans were driving them back, fighting their way across the cavern to relieve the embattled dwarfs one group at a time. Ratmen still swarmed from the shafts and passageways, but now they did so fighting a trickle of skaven seeking to flee the conflict. The sight reassured Mandred. If his army could maintain the momentum, they would make that trickle into a raging torrent that would sweep the verminous horde away.

  ‘We’ll soon join your brother!’ Mandred called out to Kurgaz, nodding to him.

  The dwarf turned away from the mushed remains of an armoured ratman, frowning as he tried to peer over the shoulders of the knights and soldiers around him. ‘I’ll take your word for it, princeling,’ he growled, then hurled himself at another foe.

  Beside the prince, Beck was fending off the frenzied assault of a snaggletoothed ratkin draped in a tattered cloak and wielding knives in both its paws. The filthy creature reminded Mandred of the gutter runners that had rampaged through Neist’s hospice. He felt no qualms as he drove his sword into the thing’s back. Many more would die before Sofia was avenged.