Wolf of Sigmar

by C. L. Werner

  Observing the carnage caused by the Far-Claw, Sythar regretted he’d never been able to use it the way it had been intended. From the hill, the claw could command the whole of the harbour.

  If he’d still possessed organic eyes, Sythar would have blinked in surprise as the Far-Claw began swinging around, turning away from the city. The long steel crane stretched out over the harbour, the enormous metal talons poised above one of Clan Skurvy’s ships. Before the crew fully appreciated its peril, the chains holding the claw were loosed and the gigantic mass came slamming downwards like the fist of an angry god.

  The destruction was incredible. The ship was pulverised, its hull pitted, its back broken. Fore and aft snapped, drifted away in separate masses of splintered wood before slowly rolling belly up. Shrieking skaven were thrown into the sea, scrabbling frantically at the wreckage floating around them in an effort to escape the water. Slowly, the huge claw rose from the depths, bits of the ship it had annihilated clinging to its fingers as the chains lifted it back into the air.

  Horrified silence settled across the harbour. The warpcasters on the other ships no longer hurled their missiles at Dietershafen. Instead, their captains unfurled sails, broke out banks of oars and began a frantic retreat out to sea. The crew of the flagship started to do the same. Sythar was forced to gun down three of them before they decided to listen to the enraged Grey Lord.

  The audacity! To use his own weapon against him! To turn the Far-Claw on his allies! Sythar’s blood boiled at the thought that some treacherous underling was even now helping the man-things bring the Far-Claw against Skurvy’s ships. Vengefully, he ordered the warpcaster crew to load the catapult and target the hill. He hissed in disgust when the first shot fell short, impacting against the rocks well below the base of the tower.

  Before a second shot could be hurled at the tower, the Far-Claw came hurtling down from the sky. The seamanship of the ironclad’s crew was admirable. Even in the face of such a terrifying assault they managed to manoeuvre their ship. Instead of smashing clean through the vessel, the huge claw simply grazed the side, catching one of the paddlewheels. The wheel was ripped from its moorings, sent to the bottom as a twisted mess of metal impaled upon the Far-Claw’s talons.

  Loss of the paddlewheel caused the ship to develop a rapid list to starboard as the imbalance of the remaining wheel’s weight threatened to roll the vessel. Frantic ship-rats armed with hammers, axes and anything else they could get their paws on rushed to the paddlewheel, thinking to break it free. The desperate effort, however, came to naught.

  As he fought to keep his footing on the pitching deck, Sythar watched in horror as the warpcaster’s ammunition was sent rolling towards the bottles of acid. Even in the depths of drunkenness Fleetmaster Skarpaw appreciated the threat, hurling himself at the lead balls to intercept them. However, in his drunkenness, the pirate failed to appreciate what the heavy lead balls would do to a body of flesh and bone.

  Sythar Doom dove for the ironclad’s side, racing away from the disaster he knew must follow the collision of lead sphere and acid flask.

  The entire aft end of the ironclad vanished in a burst of green fire, a pillar of flame that soared hundreds of feet into the air. Its entire back blown to atoms, its buoyancy hopelessly obliterated, the forward section of the ship vanished beneath the waves, the suction of its sinking dragging many of the skaven survivors with it into the briny darkness.

  The surviving skaven ships conspired to still greater efforts to escape into the Sea of Claws, spurred on by the violent demolition of their flagship.

  The Battle of Dietershafen was over.

  Stirland, 1122

  The town of Silberwald was swollen with refugees. Even at the height of the plague and the skaven depredations that had followed, the settlement had never suffered from such an inundation of humanity. Shacks and tents stretched all around the town’s timber palisade, engulfing the fields and pastures beyond the walls. Acres of forest had been felled to feed the fires and build the hovels of the refugees. Every effort by the town militia and the handful of Dienstleute in the service of Silberwald’s liege lord, Duke Reinhard, to restrain the tide had been thwarted. Against such numbers there was nothing so few men, no matter how well armed and disciplined, could do.

  For many years, tales of what was going on in the neighbouring province of Sylvania had been trickling into Stirland. Wild stories of marching skeletons and armies of decayed zombies had met with derision and scorn. Morrite priests and secular authorities had dismissed such tales as exaggerations, fables to frighten the Stirlanders and make them forget the duty owed to them by their Sylvanian subjects.

  Now those black fables had exploded across the frontier and plunged Stirland into panic. Villages all along the border had been decimated by midnight marauders, exterminated by the deathless hordes of Vanhal.

  Vanhal! The name once considered nothing more than the bogey of ignorant, inbred rustics had become anathema. Few among the peasantry dared even whisper the name now lest by speaking it they should draw the attentions of its merciless owner. Publicly, the nobles did their best to discredit the fearsome mythology that had grown up around the necromancer, claiming him to be nothing more than a murderously clever warlock preying upon the weak. In private, however, the nobles spent small fortunes acquiring talismans and charms that might fend off Vanhal’s sorceries.

  Invaded first by the refugees, the mass of humanity gathered about Silberwald had brought a second invasion. The knights and soldiers of Grand Count von Oberreuth and his vassals marched to the town. Where the local authorities had failed to bring order to the ragged host, von Oberreuth’s army soon took charge. Sergeants prowled among the refugees, detaching those hale enough to carry a spear. A simple armband of green was all it took to mark the startled peasants as soldiers. After a dozen hangings, none of the chosen men dared to desert. It didn’t need Vanhal’s advance to visit death upon them.

  ‘An impressive muster,’ observed Dregator Iorgu as he studied the sprawl of the military encampment that had displaced much of the refugee squalor outside Silberwald. He pointed his baton towards an open field where barrel-chested sergeants tried to drill some discipline into their newly recruited peasant soldiers. ‘A bit rough around the edges. Do you think these peasants will fight?’ The dregator looked aside at the mounted warlord beside him. The cold gleam of the voivode’s eyes sent a chill down Iorgu’s spine. People tended to die in very unpleasant ways when Count von Drak was in such humour.

  ‘They will fight,’ Malbork declared. ‘They will fight because they have no choice. Von Oberreuth has chosen a good place to fight. He intends to engage Vanhal in Fellwald. The trees are dispersed enough to allow for cavalry yet still thick enough to provide shelter from Vanhal’s dragons.’ The voivode paused, stroking his thick moustache as he considered the prospect of facing dragons on the field of battle. It was the sort of conceit that belonged to legends, the fabric of heroic ballads. But then so did an entity of such terrible power as Vanhal.

  ‘They will run,’ Iorgu sneered, trying to mask his own trepidation.

  Malbork bestowed upon the dregator a withering smile. ‘They will fight,’ he repeated. ‘They will fight because their wives and children stay behind in Silberwald. If we do not turn back Vanhal, if they do not fight to their utmost, the necromancer will butcher their families. Root and branch.’ He barked a vicious laugh. ‘It never ceases to amaze how those with the least quality in their blood will struggle hardest to perpetuate their line.’

  Dregator Iorgu shifted uneasily in his saddle. To ensure the loyalty of his Nachtsheer, Count von Drak made it a custom to take the children of his officers hostage. He scowled as he glanced back at the Stirlander peasantry training in the field. For all his rank and privilege, he was no better off than these unwashed clods. The approach of riders gave him a distraction from his grim thoughts.

  ‘Excellency, it seems Count von
Oberreuth has at last taken note of our arrival,’ Iorgu said, directing the voivode’s attention to the horsemen.

  Count von Drak drew a sharp breath through clenched teeth. It had been insult enough that his liege lord had kept the Sylvanian force waiting for the better part of an hour, but now when von Oberreuth finally deigned to receive Malbork it was by way of Baron von Waldberg-Raabs. Sending a tax collector out as his emissary was a gesture eloquent in its calculated diminishment. Von Oberreuth was reminding Malbork of his subservient position.

  The voivode curled his lip in a sneer. Let the damnable grand count enjoy his supremacy while he could. Once the armies of Stirland and Vanhal annihilated each other, there would be no force strong enough to deny Sylvania the independence she had so long coveted.

  Baron von Waldberg-Raabs drew his horse up short before Malbork and Iorgu. ‘Greetings from his lordship Grand Count Karl von Oberreuth, Prince of Wurtbad, Margrave of Waldenhof, Duke of Woerden, Overlord of Sylvania.’ The emphasis on the last title wasn’t lost on the voivode. While he was still scowling at the reminder, the baron cast an appraising glance at the black-clad footmen and cavalry arrayed on the road behind von Drak. ‘His lordship was waiting for the rest of your company to arrive before receiving you.’ He waved his hand at the Nachtsheer. ‘Surely these aren’t all the men Sylvania is contributing.’

  ‘These are soldiers,’ Iorgu growled at the baron, forgetting the deference due the man’s noble rank. ‘Veterans of ten long years of fighting the undead. Each of them is worth a dozen of your peasant trash.’

  Baron von Waldberg-Raabs didn’t deign to respond to the dregator’s agitation. Instead he made a show of trying to count the number of Sylvanians. ‘Three hundred? Surely a man of Count von Drak’s leadership could rally more fighters to his banner? Why I saw more men toiling away at fixing your castle!’

  ‘I should strip my lands bare and leave them defenceless?’ Malbork snapped. ‘What if this invasion is only a clever ruse? What if Vanhal intends to draw us out, then strike at the very heart of Sylvania? How would I meet my obligations to his lordship then?’

  The baron shrugged. ‘I suppose we shall have to make do with your, frankly, distressingly small contribution to the cause. Fortunately his lordship has less timid allies.’

  The statement brought a narrowing of Malbork’s eyes. He had paid little attention to the man who rode up with Baron von Waldberg-Raabs before. Now he made a careful study of the fellow. He was a big almost brutish specimen, his hair long and unruly, his beard thick and plaited in an almost dwarfish manner. The pelt of a white wolf was draped across his armour and the massive destrier beneath him was of a breed foreign to the Empire’s eastern provinces.

  ‘Grand Master Vitholf of the White Wolves,’ the baron introduced the knight beside him. ‘He is the representative of Graf Mandred von Zelt of Middenheim. It seems Graf Mandred’s army has been scouring the skaven from Ostland. Now he offers to put his troops at Count von Oberreuth’s disposal that we may purge Stirland of the undead scourge.’

  Count von Drak bowed his head to Vitholf, everything in his manner the very picture of appreciative courtesy. Only Dregator Iorgu wasn’t fooled. He could see the expression in Malbork’s eyes. It was well for Vitholf and the baron that they were in Stirland and not Sylvania.

  It was that fact alone that kept them among the living.

  ‘Aid-help, yes-yes?’ the frightened squeak issued from the dejected little ratkin who grovelled at the warlord’s feet. ‘Promise-say mighty Mordkin save-guard brave-loyal Skab!’

  Bonelord Nekrot brought his foot smacking against the beggar’s snout, claws raking across the thin fur of the ratman’s nose. The emissary leapt back, yelping in pain. An intoxicating mix of fear and blood saturated the skaven’s scent. The smell filled the underground grotto, the plundered ruin of an ancient barrow. The beady eyes of Nekrot’s warriors shone in the darkness, reflecting the gleam of worm-oil lanterns, illuminating their grisly hunger.

  A flick of his claw and Nekrot let his grave-rats pounce upon the stunned messenger. The Skab-rat was gory ribbons almost before he could shriek, ripped asunder by the cannibalistic fangs of Mordkin.

  Clan Skab! The fool-meat had thought to prey upon Mordkin’s vulnerability after their battle against the mage-thing Vanhal! They had wrested from Mordkin some of the surface holdings bestowed upon them by Vecteek. They had seized some of Mordkin’s lesser burrows and warrens. Now, when their warriors were being decimated, when they were being driven from the surface by the Man-dread, now they sought alliance with Mordkin? Such audacity deserved to end in catastrophe!

  Nekrot ran his paw across the bleached bone armour covering his body. Crafted from the butchered remains of the last Bonelord, the armour was a symbol of the permanence of his clan. Mordkin had defied the fearsome power of the Accursed One and emerged from the bowels of Cripple Peak stronger than before! What did they need to fear from their fellow skaven?

  Naturally, it helped when their fellow skaven were credulous enough to accept words of treaty and alliance. When Man-dread first set upon Skab’s holdings, Mordkin had promised them aid. If the Skab-rats had been stupid enough to believe Nekrot intended to honour such promises, that was their problem!

  The Bonelord turned away from his feasting grave-rats, settling himself in the smashed crypt he had adopted as his personal nest-throne. The sepulchre’s cool stone surface felt inviting, the pleasant scent of lingering decay made his mouth water. It was a testament to how hungry his warriors were that they’d devoured Skab’s messenger so quickly. Normally they would keep a carcass for a few weeks so it could properly ripen.

  There would be chance enough to indulge such appetite soon, however. Clan Eshin had proven incapable of killing the Vanhal, but at least they had maintained a careful watch on the hated mage-thing. Deathmaster Nartik’s blades might be dull, but his eyes were proving sharp.

  Nartik had brought back word that Vanhal was marching against the man-things. There was the promise of a great battle soon. The prospect pleased Nekrot no end. Let the humans and undead batter themselves into pulp. Once both sides were weakened, once the two armies were reduced to bloodied tatters, Mordkin would sweep in and destroy them all!

  A string of drool dripped from Nekrot’s fangs as he imagined what the marrow inside Vanhal’s bones was going to taste like.

  Nothing had a better savour than vengeance.

  Chapter XI

  Dietershafen, 1119

  Mandred paced across the confines of his tent, feeling as though the canvas walls were closing in on him. Several times his foot got caught in one of the furs strewn across the ground, nearly tripping the distracted Graf of Middenheim. Even here, on the plain beyond Dietershafen the stink of skaven hung heavy in the air. The reek was stifling, obscene in its persistence. Given the extent of the ratmen’s assault on the Empire, there were some who now speculated that the vermin had inflicted the Black Plague on mankind in some unholy fashion. To Mandred’s mind, the stench of the skaven themselves would have been enough to spread sickness among men.

  That Baroness Carin and her retinue could bear to be down in the old palace, a place that was absolutely filthy from years of verminous infestation was something Mandred found astounding. The polluted rubble was worlds away from the splendour of her castle at Salzenmund, yet she condescended to surround herself with this squalor. It was a testament to her iron resolve and her political acumen. She knew the bold message her habitation of the palace would send. The proper lords of Nordland were back; Dietershafen was once more in human hands.

  The message was noble, but the reality was bitter. Dietershafen was almost as ruinous as Carroburg had been. Three-quarters of the city had been obliterated by either the giant mechanical claw or by the fires started by the naval bombardment. Before Mandred led his army into Dietershafen, the skaven had packed the city with human slaves. The blessing that so many had managed to
escape the carnage of battle had become a curse now that the logistics of feeding such a multitude had been added to their problems. The former slaves were packed into every building that had survived the fighting, sometimes in such numbers that they slept upon the floors in great heaps, like so many exhausted dogs.

  Simple humanity demanded that the supplies Baroness Carin had stockpiled in Salzenmund be brought to Dietershafen. Only the most callous of his advisors had demurred. Among them was Count van der Duijn. He insisted that the supplies be devoted solely to the troops. The Westerlander clung to the old plan of using Dietershafen to stage a naval assault against the barbarians in Marienburg. He was blind to the many ways the situation had changed, refusing to see or hear anything that would delay the liberation of his homeland.

  Mandred could sympathise with Count van der Duijn to a degree. It was a terrible thing to have your land occupied by foreign conquerors. Taken within the whole, however, Marienburg was fortunate its conquerors had been at least a debased sort of humanity. The scope of atrocity perpetrated by the skaven against those they’d conquered was almost beyond comprehension. To the thousands of starved, beaten and maimed slaves the ratmen had left behind must be added the thousands more who, like Princess Erna’s doktor, had been dragged away to the subterranean world of these monsters. Even more horrifying were the accounts and evidence of how the ratmen dealt with those too weak or sick to toil for their verminous masters. However debased they might be, the Norscan barbarians weren’t eating their captives. Mandred had argued with his council that Marienburg would have to wait while the ratmen still infested so much of the Empire. It was an argument that he won easily.

  Beyond the immediacy of freeing those enslaved by the skaven there was the bald fact that the plans developed by Count van der Duijn and Baroness Carin were no longer practical. To mount an attack on Marienburg, they would need a great fleet and a port that could service such an armada. Baroness Carin was the first to confess that Nordland could no longer provide either. The destruction inflicted upon Dietershafen would take years to repair; certainly the shipyards couldn’t be put in order until the next summer, at earliest. Replacing the ships demolished or stolen by the ratmen would take even more time. In three years, perhaps, they would have the resources to liberate Marienburg from the sea.