The Empire Omnibus

by Chris Wraight, Nick Kyme, Darius Hinks

  For the first time that evening, Magnus’s mood had improved sufficiently to appreciate the dwarf’s boast. A team of men, working in shifts, could carve a tunnel under the foundations of the citadel. It would be hard work, but he’d seen such things done in sieges before. The fact that the cleft existed made it possible. They could work in secret, and far underground. If done right, the defenders would know nothing of it.

  ‘I take back my earlier words, dwarf,’ said Magnus. ‘Once a tunnel runs beneath the foundations, everything changes. We have charges for detonation. Or perhaps a way could be made for a raid. In either case, we’ll be safe from those guns.’

  Thorgad frowned.

  ‘Don’t get carried away,’ he said. ‘This is difficult and dangerous work, particularly for you. You won’t seize the citadel this way.’

  Magnus nodded, his spirits undiminished.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But it’s a start.’

  He turned to face the dwarf, the first genuine smile on his face since the discovery of the stricken army in the vale below. At last, there was something for him to begin proper work on. Messina would be kept away from this. He would need a few dozen men, no more. And Scharnhorst would have to hold it secret from the others. It could be done. It just needed planning.

  ‘That’s all I need,’ said Magnus, his voice quickening with excitement, considering the possibilities. ‘A start. My friend, I believe our luck has changed at last.’

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘You fear the monsters of Chaos, mortal? Well you should. They will shrive your soul before the altar of their infinite lust. They are powerful, and terrible. But, and here is the root of all forbidden knowledge, even such creatures as these are nothing but the creations of the minds of men. Without our dreams, they are mere phantasms. It is our thought that conjures them into the world of flesh. And so this is the most dangerous lesson of all. There is nothing so perilous in all the world as the unlocked mind of a man. There is no escape from the consequences of our nature. In our unfettered imagination, the very thing that makes us great, lies the seeds of our ruin and damnation. Fear the learned man!’

  The Proscribed Scrolls, Folio XIV

  Mavolion, The Heretic of Framburg

  The earth was riven by torment. Deep under the mountain, mighty machines toiled. The rock chamber was lit by dozens of braziers, and blood-red light swam across the stone. The space was vast, supported by massive columns. Flames burned in sunken channels scored across the floor. Booming, repetitive drum-rolls echoed through the cavernous emptiness. The voices of men rose in labour. There were hundreds of them, black shapes against the firelight, hammering at anvils, or tending the huge mechanical devices around them.

  Every so often, plumes of steam would spurt from some hidden pipe or valve. Pistons revolved slowly in brass sheaths. Metal was beaten against metal. Sparks skittered across the smooth floor. Furnaces roared insatiably, fed by lines of labourers bent double under their loads of wood. The heat was intense, the stench of burning heavy.

  Far under the surface of the earth, down in the very bowels of Morgramgar, Anna-Louisa’s forces were being armed. Wickedly curved spear-tips cascaded into waiting baskets and were dragged off into the armouries. Swords were drawn from the forges, still shimmering with heat, and plunged into water before being taken to the grinding stones. Iron crossbow bolts were sharpened and hardened, then added to the forest of shafts already fashioned. Deeper within the windowless chamber, more esoteric creations were being crafted. Strange pieces of metalwork were lovingly chipped and polished, then sent down along the lines of workers to be assembled into machines of war. Men pored over gun barrels, trigger mechanisms, blackpowder assemblies and all the other paraphernalia of the gunsmith’s art. Master gunners walked up and down the rows of craftsmen, picking up components and staring at them through round eyeglasses. The slightest flaw was noticed, and the piece rejected. Under their exacting tyranny, the surviving pieces were flawless.

  Further down into the mountain heart, right down in the very base of the castle’s foundations, the armouries were full to overflowing. Anna-Louisa had more arms than she had men to bear them. Such was her policy. When the spring came, and the promise of endless gold spread across the impoverished Empire, then they would come. Mercenaries, state troopers, princes. All would flock to her banner, eager to use the tools of death her funds had created. Secure within the cold walls of her impregnable citadel, with every passing hour her store of deadly artistry grew. Soon there wouldn’t be room for all of them, even in her near-boundless storerooms.

  Rathmor looked over the scene with satisfaction. He stood on a narrow platform high up in the wall of the chamber. The balcony jutted less than four feet into the smoke-stained air, and an angular rail of iron ran around it. From the vantage point, he could see the rows of men work, the hammers rising and falling in rhythm. The sight enthralled him. At last, after so many years, he had a workshop worthy of his talents. Even Nuln, the centre of the Empire’s industrial might, had nothing to compare to this. Nowhere in the lands of men were such weapons created. It was the start of a bright new dawn.

  Perhaps this is how it had been in the glory days of the dwarfs, he thought. Maybe the old karaks had echoed to the synchronised pounding of metal and the roar of fire once. No longer. They were half-empty now, and the oldest forges were cold. Only Rathmor, possessed of long-forgotten knowledge and a mind capable of using it, had grasped what needed to happen. The long years of ridicule were drawing to a close.

  ‘Magnificent,’ he breathed, his eyes sweeping across the nightmarish vista. ‘Perfection. Excellence. Unmatchable.’

  His thoughts were interrupted. From behind him, Rathmor heard the clatter of armoured feet. There was a narrow corridor leading up to the balcony, carved into the raw stone. It was filled with figures. One shadow was intimately familiar to him. Rathmor’s heart sank. Esselman had come to monitor progress.

  The warrior strode onto the balcony. He looked over the scene with distaste. His retinue stayed back respectfully. Rathmor nodded briefly in greeting. Esselman barely acknowledged his presence.

  ‘You have turned this whole level into a smithy,’ he said, coldly. His ivory hair was tinged with red from the fire.

  Rathmor sneered.

  ‘I was told to build you an army,’ he said. ‘You need tools. I merely provide.’

  Esselman didn’t look convinced. Something about the mighty contraptions of bronze and iron clearly appalled him. In the perpetual gloom, they hissed and pounded like unbound creatures from a nightmare.

  ‘Where are the infernal engines?’ he said, peering into the fiery murk below.

  ‘Only one is ready,’ said Rathmor. ‘It will be many weeks before another can be completed. This is delicate work. We are on the frontiers of knowledge. I can’t rush it.’

  Esselman snorted.

  ‘We may need them sooner than you think,’ he said. ‘Have you seen the size of Ludenhof’s army? They’re biding their time. We should have attacked them in the passes. Now they’re encamped before us. We’re hemmed in. I don’t like it.’

  Rathmor laughed, a scraping sound that was swiftly lost amid the pounding below.

  ‘Why so scared?’ he said, mockingly. ‘It’s not like you. There’s nothing they can do to us in here. Their pathetic Tilean fire has been doused. It would never have kindled on this stone. Half their cannons have been smashed. The rest are barely capable of denting these walls, let alone break them. Let them starve in the open! After a few weeks of this, the machines will be ready. If they thought our earlier show was pretty, they’ll love the encore.’

  Esselman’s severe face remained impassive.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said, in a tone that gave away his doubt. ‘But it’s a craven strategy. I’d rather strike now than later. It’s been too long since I had a sword in my hand and some natural air in my lungs. Your
filth poisons me.’

  Rathmor smirked.

  ‘Then petition the lady to let you go outside. I’d love to hear what she’d have to say.’

  Esselman couldn’t suppress a momentary shudder.

  ‘Your case has been made now,’ he said, turning away from the furnaces. ‘We’ll stay cooped up in here until our leashes have been removed. I’ll not try to convince her again.’

  Rathmor smiled.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve seen reason,’ he said.

  Esselman gave him a dark look.

  ‘I hope you’re right about this, Rathmor. This is a fearful risk. Your contraptions are powerful, I’ll give you that. But what we’re doing hasn’t been attempted for a generation. When the rebellion spreads from Hochland, there are mightier powers than Ludenhof to worry about.’

  ‘So there are,’ said Rathmor. ‘But it can be done. Remember Marienburg. Where is your faith?’

  As he spoke, the hammers rained down, the sparks flew. The flames leapt high against the chiselled rock face, and the giant cog wheels turned slowly in the darkness.

  ‘If I had any faith, I wouldn’t be doing this,’ muttered Esselman. ‘And that’s what worries me.’

  As he turned to face Rathmor again, Esselman towered over the hunched engineer.

  ‘But, to give you your due, you’ve created all manner of toys down here,’ he said. ‘I know how deadly they are. And that’s why I’ve come down. I want you to use them to make this place safe. Forget churning out more spikes for the lady. We need to make sure the citadel is secure.’

  Rathmor’s petulant expression returned.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘What more protection do you want? The walls are twelve feet thick.’

  ‘I’ve conducted a siege before,’ Esselman said. ‘A castle is never as strong as your pride makes it. There are always weak links. You’ve boasted that your weapons are like nothing used before. Prove it to me. Lace this place with them. String your damned firecrackers from every archway in the citadel.’

  He leaned over towards Rathmor, and the light of the fires below caught in his eyes.

  ‘If they get in here, I don’t want any of them to get out,’ he hissed. ‘Make this place into the father of all deathtraps. If those walls are breached, I want to hear them burn as they enter.’

  A slow smile grew across Rathmor’s lips.

  ‘Traps?’ he said, and his tongue briefly flickered with relish. ‘I see what you mean. Well, a little extra security wouldn’t hurt. And it would be a pleasant intellectual diversion.’

  Esselman made to withdraw. It looked like he was keen to leave the foundry.

  ‘Diversion or not, you’ll do it,’ he said. ‘Just don’t take too long about it. They’ll come at us soon. I can feel it in my blood. I’ve seen the way you use fire. Start on the main tower, and work out. Everything needs to be covered. It may not come to it, but if it does, their flesh will be the fuel. We can’t allow them to get this far in. There are secrets in the tower that would damn us all.’

  Rathmor bowed his head. When his face rose again, it had a hungry look.

  ‘I’ll get right to it, general,’ he said. ‘It will be a pleasure. A genuine pleasure.’

  Magnus squeezed himself down into the tunnel once more. He didn’t like working underground. The spaces were too confined. Whenever he descended into Thorgad’s workings, he couldn’t forget the layers of stone pressing heavily down on the roof above. It wasn’t natural. Not for a man.

  Ironblood had never been one for earthworks. Many of his colleagues in Nuln had loved them. Those who had completed their training without being crushed or suffocated had found long and profitable service with the armies of electors, for siegecraft was highly valued. But for Magnus, the joy of his profession was the blackpowder lore. That was where the childish excitement of the engineer really lay. He could still remember seeing the first demonstration given to him by his father, more than thirty years ago. Back then he could only watch, wide-eyed, his child’s face lit with the sparking of the unnatural candles Augustus Ironblood had placed all around the floor of the forge. Only later had he been allowed to take the work on himself, to experiment with fuses, explosive charges and burn-times. That was where the magic was, in the unpredictable, capricious nature of the augmented fire, the plaything and the servant of the gunnery schools. And the danger too, of course.

  Magnus pushed forward, past the narrow entrance and into the wider tunnel carved by Thorgad and his team of sappers. The work had been done brilliantly. Under cover of night, men had sneaked materials into the narrow cleft hard against the shadow of the valley wall. They had moved in small groups, taking as little with them as they could each time. All the tools, the gouges, axes and hammers, were kept underground. No wooden frame supported the fragile ceiling of the tunnel. Thorgad had insisted on this. It would be too easy for the enemy to spot large groups of men carrying heavy planks and beams into the rock opening, even at night. Instead, the dwarf had used his race’s long knowledge of the bones of the mountains to direct the delving. The tunnel snaked through veins of solid, hard-wearing rock. The process made excavation dangerous and exhausting, but reduced the risk of collapse. Pillars were left standing at regular intervals, shaped into cunning forms by Thorgad himself. These columns carried the weight of the whole earth above. Every time Magnus brushed past them, he made the sign of the comet against his breast.

  From the natural opening in the valley’s side, the carved corridor ran steadily down into the heart of the mountain root. It didn’t take a straight path, but ran unevenly through the most suitable rock. The gaps were just tall enough for a man to walk along, his body bent double. Thorgad stomped up and down the tunnel unhindered, but Magnus had to stoop low, his fingers inches above the floor.

  After several days of unforgiving labour, the underground path now reached far under the valley floor, and drew near to the foundations of the citadel at its head. The men worked long through the night, relying on the ever-present hum of the fell machines in the bowels of Morgramgar to drown the noise of their hacking and chipping. Even in the face of solid rock, they used little blasting powder. On the few occasions when the only option was to crack open the rock ahead with a charge, Magnus had arranged for Scharnhorst to launch a volley of fire from the remaining iron-belchers. It was a crude tactic, for the cannons they had left were barely capable of hitting the walls at their current range. For the time being at least, though, it seemed to have worked. There was no sign that any of the defenders knew anything of the tunnelling going on beneath their feet. In fact, there was still no sign of any defenders at all. The citadel remained as chill and impassive as ever.

  Magnus pushed himself into an even smaller gap, and felt his breathing grow more rapid. There were torches fixed to the walls of the tunnel. By some art of Thorgad’s they burned brightly and with little smoke. But there was no escaping the cloying, deadening impression of being buried far beneath the earth. The air was hot and close. As Magnus neared the head of the workings, he could hear the men cursing. The smell of sweat was heavy. Iron clanged against rock, and the gloom was lit by sparks as well as fire.

  ‘How goes it?’ said Magnus, panting heavily and pressing his hands against his thighs. His palms were moist, and his linen shirt clung to him under the leather of his coat.

  The dwarf turned from the rock face, and smiled. Thorgad was happiest underground. His mood was rarely as good in the sunlight.

  ‘It goes well!’ he growled, his eyes glittering with satisfaction. ‘We’re nearly through. Now all you have to do is work out what to do when we’re in.’

  Magnus sank back against the wall, letting his breathing ebb to normal. The tunnel was a hateful place.

  ‘I showed your drawings to Scharnhorst,’ he said. ‘He’s pleased. I think he might be starting to trust us again. That’s good.’

  Thorgad stompe
d over and leaned on Glamrist. The dwarf never used the axe to hew stone, but kept it by his side at all times. The ornate blade seemed to be some kind of talisman for him.

  ‘So what did he say?’ asked the dwarf.

  ‘He wants the guns taken out,’ said Magnus. ‘The ones on the ramparts. With them out of the way, he thinks he can unleash Kruger, Kossof and the others on the gates. I told him I thought we could do it. What do you think?’

  Thorgad blew out loudly, his scarred cheeks puffing out.

  ‘Grungni’s beard, human,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘How do you propose we do that? I can get into the lower levels, but what are you going to do after that? Storm the place yourself?’

  Magnus smiled grimly.

  ‘Not on my own,’ he said, dryly. ‘We have some tricks up our sleeve. Messina’s not the only one with gadgets.’

  He reached into his clothes, and withdrew a small metal sphere, studded with rivets and wrapped in a leather strip.

  ‘Know what this is?’

  Thorgad eyed the device warily.

  ‘I’ve seen similar,’ he said, distrustfully. ‘Some kind of blackpowder weapon?’

  Magnus nodded.

  ‘These are charges,’ he said. ‘My own design. Small enough to fit a dozen on a belt, but nasty enough to clear a room of men. Pull the strap clear, and the wick ignites with a flint. Take care to get far enough away before it goes off, though. They’re devastating.’

  Magnus grinned, and tossed the ball lightly in his palm.

  ‘These are from my own stash,’ he said. ‘The last I salvaged. They have a few extra tweaks.’

  Thorgad frowned.

  ‘Then stop throwing it around like a fool,’ he growled. ‘What’s your plan?’