by C. L. Werner
Keeping the animal at all had been an act of submission on Gazulgrund’s part, a concession to the decree of Protector Kreyssig. Worried that the skaven might yet have spies in Altdorf, that they might be planning a second invasion, Kreyssig had ordered all persons of position to keep a cat with them. The brute would warn if a skaven were near. Gazulgrund’s objections that the divine grace of Sigmar was all the protection the Temple needed had fallen on deaf ears. He’d sent a troop of Kaiserjaeger to the cathedral to deliver the Grand Theogonist’s cat, making it clear in no uncertain terms that debate was not an option. That he’d selected a black cat for the priest, an animal even more closely associated with Old Night, was a calculated insult that wasn’t lost on Gazulgrund.
The priest stared down into the hateful yellow eyes of the cat before drawing the heavy backcloth down across the cage, hiding the animal from view. He didn’t like the reminder of Kreyssig’s authority, of his dominance over the Temple. He could speak more freely without feeling the beast’s hostile gaze upon him. And, especially this night, he needed to speak freely.
Returning to his desk, Gazulgrund sank down into his chair and tapped a tiny brass hammer against a bronze bell. A shrill, piercing note echoed through the study. In response, the door slowly opened and a shaven-headed monk peeked his head into the room.
‘I will see him now,’ Gazulgrund said, each word sinking like a leaden weight as he spoke. The enormity of what he was about to do, the implications of what he would order done, they were a burden not lightly contemplated.
The monk withdrew. The door opened wider and a man entered. He was garbed in black leather, from his gloves to his boots to the long cloak he wore. A heavy hood was drawn up over his head, obscuring his features in shadow. There was the clink of mail rattling with each stride the man took. As the door closed behind him, he reached up and drew back the concealing hood, displaying intense, hawkish features.
‘It is my supreme honour to attend you, holiness,’ the visitor declared, bending to one knee before the desk and the priest behind it.
Gazulgrund motioned the man to rise. ‘You may find little honour in this audience after you have learnt why I summoned you,’ he announced gravely. ‘My words will test your resolve, they will push your faith in Lord Sigmar to the utmost. Men, pious and true, have stood where you stand now and they have recoiled in horror at my words. It is condemnation of neither your courage nor your belief if you choose to depart now. If you stay to attend me and would hear my command, know that the consequences must be severe.’ He waited a moment, but his visitor remained standing. The hawkish features displayed no trace of anxiety, only curiosity. There was none of the trepidation he’d encountered before. Gazulgrund took that for a good sign.
‘Templar-Captain Reinhardt Holz, you have served dutifully in the Order of the Silver Hammer for ten years. Your career has been one of honour and fidelity. You have devoted yourself to the Temple, to rooting out the enemies of Sigmar and destroying them, whatever abominable form they might take. The Warlock of Darckenburg, the Vampire of Morrfeld, the obscene Cult of the Purple Hand in Nuln, these have you exposed and exterminated in the name of Mighty Sigmar.’ Gazulgrund stared intently at the templar. ‘However horrific the foe, you have never strayed from the guiding light of Sigmar.’
‘What nobler purpose can a man hold than to serve Lord Sigmar,’ Holz stated.
Gazulgrund glanced at the covered cat cage. It was curious that Holz should quote from Dyre. Perhaps it was a sign that he’d found the man who would not shrink from what he would have him do, the atrocity that must be done if the Temple were to endure.
‘You have removed many threats to the Temple,’ Gazulgrund said. ‘Your bravery has never been questioned. Fearlessly you have confronted evil and your valour in that arena is beyond doubt. But it needs a different sort of valour to protect the Temple now, a courage that demands far more strength than anything that has come before.’
‘The Temple is mother and father, what threatens it must perforce threaten me,’ Holz said, this time quoting from the sermons of Wolfgart Krieger, the man who had founded Holz’s order in the days when Sigmar walked among men.
Gazulgrund was silent for several moments. He pondered the verse Holz had recited, impressed once more by the strange appropriateness of the choice. In his mind, in his heart, Gazulgrund had no doubts. He knew the course he was set upon was the correct one. If there had been any question, he would never have reached the grim decision he had made.
‘To destroy evil is rewarding work,’ Gazulgrund declared. ‘It ennobles the soul, swells the heart with pride, eases the mind with accomplishment. There is no more satisfying labour than such good work.’ The priest’s expression darkened, his eyes becoming pinpoints of intensity. ‘The task I would charge you with will bring no such reward. It will haunt you through your years, it will prey upon your mind and sicken your heart; your soul will be blackened and befouled. But know that it is necessary. Nothing you can do in this life will ever be more important. No threat to the Temple could ever be more perilous than the one I charge you to eliminate.’
The gravity of his tone, the weight of his words shook Holz, Gazulgrund could see that by the way the templar’s eyes briefly widened, by the sudden breath he drew into his lungs. When Holz answered, it was with his own words, not those of some long-dead luminary of the Temple. ‘Ask what you will, holiness. Whatever sacrifice I can make is too little to fulfil my obligations to the Temple.’
Gazulgrund opened a small teak box lying atop the desk. From within, he removed a large jade ring. He saw Holz recoil slightly as he recognised it. He had often seen that ring on the finger of Grand Master Fahlenberg, the head of his order.
Gazulgrund stepped out from behind the desk. Solemnly he gripped Holz’s left hand and slid the jade ring onto his finger. The priest nodded when he found it was a perfect fit. Surely another omen that his course was true, the path ahead right.
‘You are now Grand Master of the Order of the Silver Hammer,’ the priest decreed. ‘The Templars are now at your command. They will acknowledge your command when they see you now bear the grand master’s ring. I now burden you with the commandment that forced Fahlenberg to depart from the Temple. Some secrets, once learned, must either be embraced or…’ He left the alternative unspoken. Far beneath the cathedral, bricked up behind one of the walls, Fahlenberg was perhaps even now breathing his last. It would have been too cruel to execute the old grand master without allowing him time to make his peace with Sigmar.
Holz nodded his head. ‘The Grand Theogonist speaks with the voice of Sigmar,’ he said, again reverting to scriptures, this time that of Grand Theogonist Marius. ‘No man may deny the words of a god.’
‘It is not evil that threatens the Temple,’ Gazulgrund stated. ‘It is not witch or warlock I charge you to destroy, but innocence. Those who are the stewards of Sigmar’s faith, the leaders of his Temple are weak. They are creatures of the flesh, even as any man. That weakness jeopardises the Temple, tempts them to prostitute the name of Lord Sigmar. Such obscenity cannot be allowed! Such temptation must be scourged from the Temple!’
Gazulgrund set his hand on Holz’s shoulder. ‘It is a dreadful duty I entrust to your order. There are wicked men who would seek to dominate this Temple through its priests. They would dominate those priests by threatening those they love. It is a cruel wisdom I have learned, but a man may love either flesh or god. If he would serve Sigmar truly and faithfully, he must deny the loyalties of flesh and blood.
‘The Order of the Silver Hammer will cut the weakness from the Temple of Sigmar. The Templars will go forth and scourge the families of arch-lector and lector, prelate and bishop. Root and branch, the flesh must be culled. To protect the Temple from those who would exploit it, we must wash the Empire in the blood of innocence.’
Holz’s face paled at the ghastliness of Gazulgrund’s commandment, but he bowed his head
in acceptance. ‘Your will be done, holiness,’ he said in firm voice.
‘Send forth your men,’ Gazulgrund told him, ‘but there is one special task I will entrust to you and you alone. Here in Altdorf, beneath the Courts of Justice, there is a black pit of terror called the Dragon’s Hole. You will descend into that pit. You will kill what you find there.’
The templar nodded gravely. The Order of the Silver Hammer was one of the few organisations outside the Kaiserjaeger who knew about Kreyssig’s secret prison. Holz might not know who it was that the Protector had imprisoned, but the fact that she was noteworthy to both Kreyssig and Gazulgrund impressed her importance upon him.
A tear rolled down the priest’s cheek as he quickly turned away from Holz. It was the last tear he would shed for his daughter, for the hostage Kreyssig had taken to bend him and the Temple to the will of a tyrant.
‘Do your work swiftly, grand master,’ Gazulgrund said. ‘Do not let her suffer.’
Chapter IV
Carroburg, 1119
Mandred watched as his council seated themselves around the charred, splintered table. They had Kurgaz and his dwarfs to thank for that bit of furnishing, a survivor from the demolition of Schloss Hohenbach. By some freak of chance, or perhaps some unfathomable whim of Ranald the Trickster, the table had been thrown clear when the castle went crashing down into the Reik. The dwarfs had discovered it lying at the foot of the Otwinsstein caught in the branches of a hoary old oak.
Despite the damage inflicted upon it, the quality and craftsmanship of the table was still abundantly evident. It was something that had been made for kings, perhaps even for emperors.
The Graf of Middenheim frowned at that last possibility. He’d hoped the table would lend a certain dignity and nobility to his meeting with his councillors. In such a savage setting as the ravaged rubble that had once been Carroburg the baser ambitions and greed of his vassals had been much too quick to be expressed. Thoughts of chivalry and duty seemed to have been forgotten in a realm ruined by war and decimated by plague. Trying to evoke, even in some small way the grandeur of a proper court, Mandred had hoped to arouse the nobility within his nobles, not encourage their lust for power with Imperial pretensions.
His humour only darkened further when two visitors to Mandred’s council were escorted into the ruined temple by his knights. Gaudily arrayed heralds announced the richly dressed guests. The thin man in the ermine-trimmed cloak and sealskin boots was Count van der Duijn of Westerland. The woman in sky-blue gown and delicately coiffured hair was Baroness Carin of Nordland. Both of them had brought extravagant gifts for the Graf of Middenheim and his court. Some of his nobles had protested when Mandred refused to accept presents from the delegations.
Westerland was a realm that had been wracked by war long before the Black Plague visited death and destruction upon the rest of the Empire. The barbarian hordes of Jarl Ormgaard had descended upon the province in a fleet of dragonships. The Norscans had sacked, pillaged and burnt much of the land, killing and despoiling anything they couldn’t steal. The once great city of Marienburg had been reduced to a shattered ruin, the lords of the land forced into their fortress on Rijker’s Island while the barbarians dominated the rest of the province.
Nordland had fared equally poorly. The Black Plague had been especially disastrous to the coastal province, killing almost three-quarters of the populace. Norscan marauders had come from the sea to plunder and kill all along the coast. Beastmen had emerged from the great forests to ravage farms and villages, driving the survivors into the supposed security of the towns. As the towns filled with refugees, the plague wrought its grisly toll, slaughtering the Nordlanders by the thousands in the overcrowded conditions. The decimated communities had been easy prey when the skaven burst from their underground burrows. Most of the province now languished under their insidious lash.
These weren’t lands that could afford gifts. Only the stubborn pride of their rulers made them think they could still indulge the extravagance of tradition. A chill ran through Mandred’s veins as he pondered how nearly Middenheim had shared the fate of these lands. But for the harsh wisdom of his father, the stalwart courage of its people and the beneficent grace of Ulric, the City of the White Wolf would have been reduced to a wretched shambles.
‘We welcome you,’ Mandred addressed his visitors on behalf of his council, rising and extending his arm towards them in a show of friendship. ‘Long and perilous has been your journey. We are humbled by the hazards you have risked and we are saddened by the dire circumstances that made those risks necessary.’ As he spoke the formalities, evoked the almost cabalistic proprieties laid down by the etiquette of generations, Mandred could almost imagine himself back in the Middenpalaz listening to Viscount von Vogelthal conducting representatives of the Imperial court to his father.
The dignitaries waited until Mandred resumed his seat before they returned his greeting and assumed their own chairs. It was Baroness Carin who finally spoke, her prim, precise voice carrying with it only the slightest hint of accent.
‘On behalf of Nordland, I thank you for such a warm greeting, Graf Mandred,’ she said. She looked out across the faces of his courtiers, studying them before she spoke again. ‘There is, however, a distinction between a true welcome and mere courtesy. I can see the concern that troubles your minds but which civility keeps from your tongues. Let me ease your doubts about our intentions in making this journey you so rightly adjudge long and perilous.’ She looked aside at Count van der Duijn, waited for a nod from him before she continued. ‘It is no secret that our lands have suffered terribly from calamity, but we do not come here as beggars seeking charity. The gifts we sought to bestow upon this court are given freely, without thought of restitution.’
‘You come to us as equals then?’ scoffed Duke Schneidereit. ‘Your lands in ruin, your cities overtaken by monsters and barbarians and you claim…’ The duke’s fury wilted beneath the glower of his sovereign.
‘It is hoped that her ladyship will forgive those among us whose pride is greater than their candour,’ Mandred’s tone was apologetic as he bowed towards the baroness. He directed a warning glance at his other nobles. ‘After any conquest, in the wake of any battle, there burns a flame in some men. In the heat of the fray a man must be gripped by a certain boldness if he is to prevail. It is regrettable that this same boldness should cause some to forget that humility too is one of the knightly virtues.’
‘A charitable sentiment, your highness,’ Count van der Duijn remarked. ‘But I must echo the words of my Nordland allies. It is not for charity that we have braved the Forest of Shadows and crossed the ruins of Drakwald.’ This time it was the count who looked to the baroness for permission before continuing. ‘We have come to do homage to the Wolf of Sigmar,’ he said, his voice becoming as firm as stone and loud as thunder. ‘We come to offer fealty to the mighty lord we would call our liege.’
From some among the council, the count’s speech brought gasps of surprise, from others only scornful chuckles. Mandred maintained a stoic silence as he considered both reactions. The less farsighted among his nobles were thrilled by the prospect of controlling these neighbouring lands. To their imaginings of new fiefdoms in Drakwald they now added the vision of rich estates in Westerland and Nordland. Others among his council, those whose minds were of a more practical turn or more farsighted vision, could appreciate the onerous obligation the fealty of these lands would place upon Middenland and Middenheim. They would become responsible for these realms, bound to their protection and their defence. If they needed any example of how burdensome such responsibility would be they had only to look around them at the wreckage of Carroburg.
‘The wolf who suckles the stray pup accepts it into the pack,’ Ar-Ulric declared. ‘But it must be wary lest the pack be weakened by its compassion.’ The old priest looked over at Mandred. ‘Too many mouths to feed brings ruin to the whole pack.’
At the graf’s right hand, Hartwich countered Ar-Ulric’s cautious philosophy. ‘The pack must grow if it is to survive,’ the Sigmarite said. ‘If it abandons its own, then it is already a thing dead.’
‘Try to save everything and you will save nothing,’ Ar-Ulric countered, his statement echoed by many wise nods from the seated nobles.
Again, Mandred considered both views. When he was a youth, his tutor had encouraged him to be careful in his deliberations. Grooming the young prince to one day rule a great city, his teacher had cautioned him that every problem had two sides. As he matured, however, Mandred realised how wrong such thinking was. Most of the world’s problems were too complex to be limited by only two possibilities. He thought about Ar-Ulric’s position. The wise old wolf urged caution, advising him to protect what was already won. He warned against reaching for more and thereby risking all. By the same token, he could see through Hartwich’s counsel. The Sigmarite was a disciple of the first Emperor and to him the dream of that Empire was more than politics and power, it was a sacred duty. Mankind united beneath one crown, one voice and one throne. Such was the destiny Hartwich believed in. It was the vision towards which he strove to guide the man whose fate he believed was to rule.