Wolf of Sigmar

by C. L. Werner

  ‘That breeder-thing,’ Skuzzyl wheezed, pointing a claw at a wizened old woman who had caught Queekual’s eye. ‘It think-know way to eat-chew plant-herb. Heal sick-things.’ Finding he had the Seerlord’s attention, Skuzzyl pointed at another slave, a dusky specimen with a great patch of fur under his nose. ‘That one find-catch in sand-land. It think-know way to stab flesh-body. Make pain leave.’

  Skuzzyl felt confidence seeping back into him as he noted the keenness with which Queekual responded to his descriptions of the special slaves. The slaveherder snapped his claws and had his minions push one particular slave to the fore. He bruxed his fangs when he saw the scrawny, elderly human stumble and fall at the Seerlord’s feet.

  ‘Best of all!’ Skuzzyl chortled, his laughter dislodging a few more bones from his perch. ‘Just what Seerlord Queekual ask-want! That was-is doktor-thing of old king-man!’

  Queekual felt a surge of excitement pulse through him as he heard Skuzzyl’s speech. Eagerly, almost half-afraid it was simply the empty boast of a slave-seller, Queekual seized the human’s jaw in his paw and forced the man to stare up at him.

  ‘You, doktor? Know-serve Boris-man?’ the Seerlord snapped in faltering Reikspiel. ‘Say-speak, quick-quick! Lie-die slow-slow!’

  The half-starved human cringed beneath Queekual’s terrifying scrutiny. ‘Yes! Yes! I ministered to the Emperor! I am Doktor Moschner, personal physician to Emperor Boris Hohenbach!’

  Queekual’s lips pulled back to expose his long fangs. The audacity of the man-thing, trying to intimidate him by evoking the name of his king! Even if the Boris-man were still alive, the temerity of the animal to think Queekual would be impressed.

  The slavemasters of Clan Moulder had impressed upon their chattel the consequences of displeasing a skaven. Moaning in horror, Moschner abased himself before Queekual, wrapping his hands about the ratman’s foot. ‘Please, don’t send me back! Don’t leave me here! I’ll serve you, I’ll be loyal! Don’t leave me here!’

  The Seerlord kicked the begging human away. Slavemasters pounced on Moschner, lashing him back into line with the other slaves.

  ‘They please you, yes-yes?’ Skuzzyl asked, one paw preening the fur covering his fat throat. ‘Much-hard to find-catch. Cost much-much!’ Queekual glared up at him. How easy it would be to tear that greedy gizzard from the slaveherder’s corrupt bulk.

  ‘Do not think to cheat-lie,’ Queekual hissed. This time his eyes fairly burned with an unholy green light. ‘The Horned Rat listens,’ he snarled. ‘The Horned Rat knows.’

  Skuzzyl grinned down from his perch. ‘Does the Horned Rat care?’ he challenged. ‘Does the Horned Rat love Clan Pestilens more?’ The slaveherder chittered with a peal of mockery. ‘Why do grey seers need-want healer-things? Why not ask the Horned Rat to protect-save from Black Plague?’

  A bolt of green lightning licked out from Queekual’s paw. The base of Skuzzyl’s perch exploded in a burst of black smoke and bone fragments. The fat ratman squealed as he came crashing down, slamming into the cavern floor and rolling nearly to the lip of the pit. Skuzzyl’s minions blinked in shocked horror, both at the violence of Queekual’s magic and its startling abruptness.

  ‘The price stays as agreed,’ Queekual growled at the prostrate Skuzzyl. He pointed his staff at the slaveherder. ‘You ask many questions of the Horned Rat. Would you like-want to see Him and get answers?’

  Bobbing his head, crawling along the floor in an expression of grovelling contrition, Skuzzyl made every assurance his conniving mind could conceive to placate the ire of his customer. Seerlord Queekual barely heard him. It was all he could do to keep the amusement from escaping his body in a peal of laughter.

  So, Skuzzyl thought the grey seers needed these slaves to help protect themselves from the Black Plague and the heretical sorcery of Clan Pestilens? Such a misconception fitted Queekual’s plans more perfectly than he could have hoped. When Skuzzyl inevitably informed the plague monks of what Queekual was doing, it would deceive those vile heretics completely. It was a small thing to suffer the contempt of mouse-sniffers like Puskab and Vrask for a season or three, a minor burden to be carried on the road to victory.

  If the plaguelords deceived themselves with Skuzzyl’s report they would be oblivious to Queekual’s true purpose.

  At least until it was too late to be stopped.

  Chapter II

  Carroburg, 1119

  The blast shook the whole of Carroburg, spilling rubble into the desolate streets and sending a black cloud wafting over the city. The wretched survivors of the city, those who had endured plague, starvation and the bestial tyranny of skaven masters, lifted their faces and watched as the forbidding battlements of Schloss Hohenbach collapsed. A ragged cheer rose from the huddled masses of dejected humanity. The castle had become the symbol of their verminous overlords. Watching it crumble into the river was something that spoke to their very souls. Graf Mandred’s army had liberated them, but it was only as they watched the castle topple into the river that the people understood.

  It was over. The years of cruel captivity and slavery were finished. They were free.

  Within the marble sanctuary of what had been Carroburg’s Cathedral of Verena, the sound of the cheering Drakwalders almost drowned out the rumbling echoes of the explosion. Trickles of dust fell from the ruined ceiling, a charred beam crashed to the floor in some forlorn corner of the temple. The defiled altar, scarred and chipped by skaven axes and hammers, vibrated in sympathy to the tremor emanating from the Otwinsstein, the great rock upon which the Hohenbachs had raised their fortress. The noble lords assembled within the cathedral, the only major building to survive the skaven occupation, and brushed dirt from the long table about which they were assembled.

  ‘That is that then,’ grumbled Margraf Udo von Ulmann. The forest baron had been the most vocal critic of demolishing the castle. Now he was trying his best to accept Mandred’s decision with a show of good grace. He wasn’t quite succeeding.

  ‘There is more to ruling a land than seizing a castle,’ observed Duke Schneidereit. ‘Indeed, it may be better destroying the castle in such remarkable fashion. It demonstrates to the Drakwalders that the old order won’t be coming back. Impresses on them where the power now resides.’

  Mandred listened to his councillors discuss the administration of Drakwald, how they would partition the province and carve new fiefdoms for Middenland nobles and those of the old Drakwald order who proved sufficiently amenable to the purposes of their new lords. Some of the noblemen argued for outright annexation of Drakwald while others urged the more prudent course of installing a puppet ruler to administer the region for them. Such a gesture would ease any misgivings in neighbouring provinces.

  As he listened, Mandred felt his stomach turn. The people of Drakwald had welcomed his army as liberators. Some of the same men he now heard speaking of exploitation and annexation had fought the hardest to free those people. In the midst of battle they hadn’t thought of profit and plunder. They’d been driven by nobler purpose and loftier ambition. How then, when the fight was won, could they bring themselves so low?

  ‘The heart of man is a fickle thing.’ The words were spoken almost at Mandred’s shoulder. He looked away from the callous debate of his nobles, attending to the priest seated beside him. Arch-Lector Wolfgang Hartwich still affected the simple monk’s robe he had worn when he’d arrived in Middenheim disguised as the erudite Brother Richter. The only change to his raiment was the large silver hammer that hung about his neck on a jewelled chain of jade and gold.

  The Sigmarite shook his head sadly as he continued the thought. ‘In turmoil, men seek only brotherhood, a comrade to share their struggle. In peace, men lust after dominance. Tragedy reveals the best in men. Prosperity exposes the worst in men.’ Wolfgang fingered the talisman he wore. ‘Only the wisdom and beneficence of the gods can protect us from ourselves, can keep us from destroying the gif
ts they have bestowed upon us.’

  ‘A bleak sentiment,’ Mandred remarked.

  ‘A harsh lesson,’ the priest corrected him. He gestured at the ruin in which they sat. ‘A building, a city, even an Empire can be rebuilt. Anything raised by mortal hands may be torn down, but so too can it be restored. Only the profanation of the soul is eternal. Only a defiled spirit is lost forever.’

  Mandred was familiar enough with Wolfgang to recognise that the priest was leading him into some philosophical trap. It was far safer to debate morality and theology with Ar-Ulric, his wisdom was pragmatic and straightforward. Wolfgang’s was more esoteric, filled with nuances of meaning that bore two questions for every answer. The Sigmarite also possessed an uncanny facility for judging Mandred’s moods and the thoughts behind them.

  ‘Men did not destroy this city,’ Mandred said. ‘Or would Sigmar absolve the skaven of their outrages?’ The graf at once repented the anger he allowed to creep into his voice. The priest didn’t fail to notice the emotion and its source.

  ‘Perhaps they are sent to test us, to find what strength is left in an Empire brought low by corruption and greed,’ Wolfgang said. ‘In every catastrophe, the seeds of great things are sown. It is up to men to let them grow.’

  ‘What can grow from such wholesale misery?’ Mandred scoffed. ‘First the plague, then the skaven! How many thousands have perished because of the indifference of the gods?’ His gaze became a bitter stare, boring hatefully into the priest’s countenance. ‘If the gods have any power at all, why do they not ease the suffering of their people?’ He waved in disgust at his councillors. ‘Listen to them! Like vultures picking at a carcass.’

  Some of the nearest of the nobles cast an anxious look towards their sovereign when they heard his outburst. The intensity on Mandred’s face caused them to discreetly pretend they had heard nothing.

  Wolfgang smiled benignly. ‘Ar-Ulric told me a curious parable before we marched from Middenheim. He said that there are two wolves living in each man’s heart. The name of one wolf is Life. He provides sustenance for his pups and comfort to his mate. The other wolf is Death. He defends his territory from intruders and brings destruction to his enemies. A man who acknowledges only Life will wither; he will fade into a cowardly shadow. The man who feeds only Death becomes a monster, existing only to kill. To be strong, a man must nurture both the wolves in his heart equally. He must never favour one above the other.’

  ‘That sounds like a warning,’ Mandred accused.

  ‘Wisdom, even Ulrican wisdom, only sounds threatening to those who already know the truth but refuse to accept it,’ the priest returned. ‘Every man is keeper of his own soul. The gods may show us the road, but it is left to each man whether he will walk the path.’ Wolfgang looked across the squabbling nobles. ‘Sometimes men need a leader to walk the road ahead of them.’

  Mandred rose from his seat, ignoring the bows and genuflections of his subjects as he stalked away from the meeting. ‘My path is my own,’ he told Wolfgang. ‘I ask no one to walk it with me.’

  As he marched from the ruined sanctuary, the arguing voices of the nobles echoed in Mandred’s ears. Each word, each syllable, stirred the anger in his heart. He hadn’t brought his army to Carroburg so his barons could loot the rubble. He’d marched his troops here to liberate an enslaved province.

  His steps faltered as he found the shattered image of Verena staring down accusingly at him in stony silence from the wall. There was no deceiving the God of Truth and Learning. Mandred hastened his step, putting the image behind him as quickly as he could. The lies a man might tell himself fell empty when he tried to justify them to a god.

  Footsteps pursued Mandred as he quickened his pace. For a few steps, the irrational fear that Verena had jumped down from his wall and was pursuing him filled the graf’s mind. Reason beat down superstitious fright, however. When he stopped and turned around he was greeted not by a judgemental stone god, but by the sympathetic softness of a lovely woman.

  ‘I was told you stormed out of the council meeting,’ the woman said. When she added a demure smile, a crimson flush rose into Mandred’s face. However rich her clothes, however luxurious her surroundings, whenever Lady Mirella smiled at him like that he could only picture the beautiful damsel he’d rescued from the Kineater… and the distress of her wardrobe when he’d first met her.

  ‘They wanted to make me Count of Drakwald,’ Mandred said. ‘I told them no.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘What these people need is help, not a new set of rulers telling them what to do.’

  Mirella was pensive for a moment. ‘Maybe they just need the right ruler telling them what to do,’ she said, stepping forward to embrace the man she loved. She drew back when she felt the tension in Mandred’s body, found him unwilling to take comfort in her arms.

  ‘I’m not the one,’ Mandred stated, a terrible weariness in his voice. ‘Everyone thinks I am, everyone looks up to me for something I don’t know how to give them. Thanks to Wolfgang, they all think I’ve been chosen by the gods to lead them gods know where.’

  ‘You walked from the Sacred Flame of Ulric, unharmed and unscathed, every wound and scar on your body healed,’ Mirella reminded him. ‘That speaks louder than any sermon Wolfgang or Ar-Ulric could ever preach.’ She lifted a hand to Mandred’s cheek. ‘The people believe in you. I believe in you.’

  Mandred pulled away. ‘Beware what you trust. It could betray you.’

  ‘You would never betray your people,’ Mirella assured him. Mandred turned from her and marched away.

  ‘Perhaps I already have,’ he said. As he continued down the ruined corridor, he dreaded to hear Mirella’s footsteps in pursuit of him. It was easier to disappoint a god than a woman.

  The darkness of the forest folded itself around the lone rider, seeming to conspire with him against his pursuers. He could hear their voices calling to him as they thundered down the trail. The panic in their tones stabbed at his heart. He wasn’t deserving of such concern. They looked to him as a leader, but he was so much less than that. A leader forgot about himself, set aside his own needs and desires so that he might do what was best for his subjects.

  That was how Graf Gunthar had ruled Middenheim. Only once in his father’s long reign had he seen Gunthar allow selfishness to threaten his subjects. That was when he had ordered an idealistic, reckless youth back into the city after being exposed to the plague-ridden squalor of Warrenburg. For his son, Gunthar had betrayed his people.

  Mandred watched from the shadows while Beck and a squadron of knights galloped past. They were good vassals, stalwart warriors, but poor woodsmen. If Beck hoped to pick up his master’s trail then he would be well-advised to fetch Mad Albrecht or one of the rangers. Left to his own devices, Beck would have a hard time tracking a mammoth across a mud flat.

  As the shouting voices faded into the distance, Mandred wheeled his horse around. He’d ridden into the forest hoping to run down some skaven stragglers. The reports from the quartermasters who maintained the army’s supplies made it clear that small bands of ratmen were creeping into Carroburg to steal food. A few of the vermin had even been caught, but the persistence of the thieving made it clear that there were still more of them out there.

  The prospect of killing ratmen was a lure Mandred couldn’t resist. The skaven wouldn’t risk a fair fight, but if they thought they held the upper hand they might show themselves. The fewer the hunters, the greater the chance of drawing the cowardly creatures from hiding. One was the smallest number Mandred knew of.

  He smiled bitterly. The example of Beck and his knights following him into the forest epitomised the turmoil in Mandred’s heart. Because of who he was, everyone wanted him to lead them. They didn’t seem to care where he took them.

  Mandred cared, however. That was why he felt only disgust for himself. He’d led this great army to liberate Carroburg, but he hadn’t done it to save
the people or enrich his domains. He hadn’t even done it for the gods. He’d done it for himself and no one else. He’d brought his army against Carroburg for one purpose: to kill skaven.

  Vengeance. It was the meat with which Mandred was feeding the wolf in his heart. Revenge for the father the ratmen had taken from him. How could he offer his subjects hope when all that was inside him was hatred? How could he ask men to die for something that belonged to him and him alone?

  The baseness of his motives disgusted him, made him recognise himself as a traitor to the expectations of thousands. Yet how could he bring about the great things they saw in him when he couldn’t see them?

  Mandred’s horse suddenly reared, neighing in alarm. He reached one hand over to pat the animal’s neck and quiet it. His other hand reached for Legbiter. If there were skaven near, the horse would smell them long before its rider was aware of them.

  The graf froze, his fingers just touching the sword’s hilt. Ahead of him, sitting beside a berry bush, was an enormous white wolf. The beast was watching him with piercing eyes. Though it had been over a year, the image of the white wolf that had led him to the Kineater’s camp, that had intervened when the monster was about to kill him, was vivid in his memory. It was impossible for him to doubt that this was the same animal.

  The wolf seemed to wait until it was certain Mandred had recognised it. Then it rose to its feet and curled back its lips in a snarl. The predator’s sudden show of ferocity threw the horse into greater panic. Mandred fought to keep the bucking steed under control, but soon found himself hurtling from the saddle.