Wolf of Sigmar

by C. L. Werner

  Elsewhere, however, other forces were at play. Forces Kreyssig was able to understand. Graf Mandred’s campaign against the skaven had swept through Nordland and Ostland, down into Stirland and Sylvania. Wherever the Wolf of Sigmar gave battle, the ratkin were deposed, sent scurrying back to their subterranean lairs. Mandred was hailed as hero and liberator by those he freed from the cruelties of the skaven. Even in the Imperial court there were those who said Mandred von Zelt was the man to reunite the shattered Empire.

  Mandred’s army had been active in Averland, campaigning to break the skaven occupation of Averheim. The latest reports to reach Kreyssig had the army turning northward now, marching towards Talabecland and Hochland. If Mandred added these territories to those already beholden to him, there would be no stopping any claim he made upon the Imperial crown.

  Kreyssig had ambition, but he was shrewd enough to know when it was useless to stand against the tide of history. Unless he fell in battle, Mandred would become the next Emperor. The Hohenbach dynasty was gone, it would be the von Zelts who would build the future. If he wished to occupy a place of prominence in that future, Kreyssig knew he had to act swiftly. He’d dispatched emissaries to Mandred’s army, sending the graf overtures indicating the Protector’s willingness to support him and help pave the way for his coronation as Emperor.

  Those emissaries had returned, bringing back word that Mandred was sending his own messenger to discuss the details of an alliance with Altdorf. Kreyssig’s agents had followed the progress of that messenger, bringing back word at every step of the man’s journey. The last report to reach him made it clear that the expected dignitary would arrive by way of the Reikstor this day unless he stopped somewhere to take shelter from the rain.

  Kreyssig wasn’t willing to gamble on the timidity of Mandred’s representative. There were those in Altdorf, chiefly Duke Vidor and his cadre of nobles, who would see any contact between the Protector and Mandred as a show of weakness. They would seize upon any perceived vulnerability to depose the hated commoner from his position. Until he had established a new role with the graf, made secure a new position in the coming regime, Kreyssig couldn’t afford for anyone but himself to have access to Mandred’s emissary or for anyone to even be aware of the man’s presence in Altdorf.

  Hence, the powerful and despotic Adolf Kreyssig sat beneath the archway, listening to the rain and watching the road. He drew the folds of his bearskin cloak tighter around himself against the chill in the air. The rain might be good for the crops, but it was eroding his patience.

  On the road ahead, two riders appeared, immediately arresting Kreyssig’s attention. One rider was a tall man bundled in a rain-soaked woollen cloak. The other rider, mounted upon a mule, was shorter but far broader of shoulder. Even at a distance, it was clear the second rider was a dwarf. Kreyssig’s spies had told him that the emissary was travelling in the company of a dwarfish bodyguard. The keenest anticipation held Kreyssig as he watched the militiamen wave the two riders towards the Reikstor.

  Spurring his own steed, Kreyssig rode out from the shelter of the arch to greet the emissary. It would help establish a thread of commonality if he exposed himself to the elements as the messenger had done, showing the man that whatever Kreyssig’s position he was eager to work with the Middenheimers and their allies. All his life, Kreyssig had seen how much easier people were to manipulate when they believed in the existence of a common bond.

  ‘Welcome to Imperial Altdorf,’ Kreyssig announced, removing his hat with a flourishing sweep of his hand. As he bowed his head, his sharp eyes studied the two riders. The dwarf was a grim, cheerless figure, his head shaved into a single strip of hair that had been stained a brilliant crimson and greased into a spiky crest. In defiance of the elements, he travelled with neither cloak nor cape, nor indeed any shirt upon his back, instead preferring to journey bare-chested in order to display the whirling tattoos inked into his skin. The Protector’s greeting brought only a brusque huff of acknowledgement from the dwarf as he blew drops of rain from his beard.

  The other rider, the human emissary, was covered by a grey cloak, the hood drawn up over the man’s face. As Kreyssig stretched out his hand in welcome, the emissary drew back the hood. The colour drained out of Kreyssig’s face when he saw who it was.

  ‘It has been a long time, Adolf,’ Erich von Kranzbeuhler said, each word spoken with such cold precision as to curdle the blood.

  Kreyssig recoiled, waving his hat in a frantic gesture to summon the honour guard to his side. Von Kranzbeuhler! A man who by all rights should be dead. He was a member of the outlawed Reiksknecht, the order of knights who had opposed the massacre of the Bread Marchers and later conspired to depose Emperor Boris. When he’d last seen von Kranzbeuhler, it had been in the sewers beneath the Imperial palace trying to escape with Ghal Maraz. The rebels had stolen it from the palace and were trying to keep it from the possession of Boris Goldgather, thereby stripping his reign of some of its legitimacy. Kreyssig had nearly lost his life trying to recover the relic.

  The outlaw knight smiled coldly when he saw the shock on Kreyssig’s face. ‘No ghost, Adolf. I am real.’ He reached beneath his cloak, bringing out a roll of vellum. Carefully, shielding the scroll with his body from the rain, Erich unrolled it just enough to expose the waxen seal fixed to the bottom of the document. There was no mistaking that seal. It was the insignia of Middenheim’s royal house, the symbol of Graf Mandred.

  ‘Call back your dogs,’ Erich warned as the Kaiserknecht started to draw their blades. ‘As you can see, I am the man you have been expecting.’

  A thin smile worked itself onto the Protector’s face. His shock at seeing his old enemy was profound, but even more profound was the message Mandred was sending by dispatching this knight as his representative. Very few people would know about what von Kranzbeuhler had stolen. Mandred must know that Kreyssig was one of them. Without saying a word, he was letting Kreyssig know where Ghal Maraz was and announcing his intention to claim the Imperial crown. If von Kranzbeuhler had brought Sigmar’s Hammer to Mandred, his claim would be seen as ordained by the gods themselves. No one would even try to stand in his way.

  Kreyssig waved aside his guards, snarling at them to withdraw back under the archway where the noise of the rain would deafen them to the words he would trade with von Kranzbeuhler. ‘I will not insult you by protesting that what I did I did for the Empire, that I was only following the orders of Boris Goldgather.’

  Von Kranzbeuhler nodded his appreciation of such courtesy. ‘A villain who takes pride in his accomplishments is a rare thing. Such honesty in a blackguard is rarer still.’ It was not lost on Kreyssig that the knight’s hand had dropped to the hilt of his sword.

  ‘You would dearly like to kill me, wouldn’t you?’ Kreyssig taunted. ‘But you are in service to Graf Mandred now and your sense of duty won’t permit you to indulge yourself. Mandred’s army must be stretched thin after so many conquests. I don’t think he would risk war with Altdorf. Certainly not over some personal grievance harboured by a vagabond outlaw. However fine the presents that outlaw might have brought him.’

  The knight’s hand clenched into a fist, striking against his thigh in a show of frustrated anger. ‘His highness desires friendship with Altdorf,’ Erich stated. ‘He is concerned with exterminating the skaven threat and is worried that he will lose precious time if he has to conquer Altdorf as well.’

  ‘And what does he offer for Altdorf’s friendship?’ Kreyssig asked. ‘I suppose that he won’t allow me to remain as the Emperor’s steward. But I’m not a greedy man. I would be content with a less lofty title.’ He sneered at von Kranzbeuhler. ‘I believe the role of Prince of Altdorf is still vacant.’

  Erich bristled at the remark, fully aware that it had been Kreyssig who had thwarted Prince Sigdan’s coup against Emperor Boris and thereby had been responsible for the prince’s death. He retaliated for the mocking barb with one of
his own.

  ‘Your wife sends her tender regards,’ the knight hissed.

  Kreyssig flinched as though he’d been physically struck.

  Erich laughed at the despot’s surprise. ‘Yes, Princess Erna is alive. She escaped the fate of Boris Goldgather and his guests. As we speak, she is the welcome guest of Graf Mandred’s court. She is eager to see you again. You will find her quite changed, Adolf. She’s not the same woman you tortured and imprisoned.’

  Kreyssig turned his horse about. ‘Come,’ he ordered as he walked towards the Reikstor. ‘You must be tired after your long journey. The courtesies of the Imperial palace are at your disposal. After you have rested, we will discuss what Graf Mandred is willing to offer and what I can provide in return.

  ‘Affairs of state first. Old reunions will have to wait until a more providential time.’

  Von Kranzbeuhler followed Kreyssig through the Reikstor. ‘I am at your convenience,’ he promised. ‘I look forward to it with the keenest anticipation,’ he added as his fingers again closed about the hilt of his sword.

  Chapter XIV

  Averland, 1123

  Against the night sky, the fires burning inside Averheim cast a hellish glow. It was akin to staring into the maw of a gargantuan dragon, the ruined towers and temples of the city standing in black silhouette against the flames like the jagged fangs of the monster. The dull, distant clamour of battle raging about the besieged Averburg was transformed into the reptile’s hiss and roar, distorted and strangely magnified by its circuitous passage through the streets.

  Mandred had learned long ago the wisdom of engaging the ratmen in the clean light of day whenever possible. Since they were tunnel-haunting beasts, the skaven eye was especially sensitive to sunlight. Given their preference, the vermin would fight in darkness. At Wolfenburg, the creatures had gone so far as to drag grass and timber to the walls of the city, burning it so that they might wage their siege beneath a mantle of smoke. It seemed the ratkin were following the same tactics here.

  Desiring every advantage over the foe, Mandred ordered a halt when his army neared Averheim. With the day nearly spent they would need to wait until daybreak before starting their attack against the skaven. Timber palisades were quickly erected against any assault by the ratmen across the plain outside Averheim and a battery of scouts and sentries was dispatched to watch for the enemy while the rest of the army struck camp.

  Most curious among Mandred’s precautions were the iron rods his troops pounded deep into the ground. Twenty feet long, the rods were struck again and again until only two feet remained poking up from the earth. At each sunken rod, a dwarf was stationed, with one hand resting on the top of the rod. It was a precaution that had been adapted from the methods used by the dwarfs to warn them of the presence of skaven in their tunnels. Vibrations in the earth would be conducted through the metal rod and detected by the hand resting against it. If the ratmen were burrowing beneath the encampment, the dwarfs would feel the vibrations.

  It was towards midnight when the dwarfs gave the alarm. Sleepy-eyed men spilled from their tents, hurriedly strapping on their swords and donning shirts of mail. The alert spread swiftly through the encampment. Kurgaz himself rushed to Mandred’s tent to warn the graf.

  ‘Skaven,’ the dwarf said, investing the name with such hatred that he had to spit after uttering it.

  Beck helped Mandred into his armour, strapping the steel breastplate about the nobleman’s chest. Mandred frowned at his bodyguard’s own wardrobe, a linen nightshirt and a pair of boots. ‘See to your own armour,’ he told the knight.

  Beck shook his head as he removed a vambrace from the armour rack. ‘My duty is to guard your life,’ he said, then rapped his knuckle against the steel plate he held. ‘This will do a better job than I could ever do.’

  ‘See to your armour,’ Lady Mirella ordered Beck, rushing forward to take over the outfitting of her lover. Beck was hesitant to relinquish his labour. The noblewoman scowled at him. ‘Many are the times I helped Prince Sigdan into his armour before a tourney,’ she told the knight. ‘He never suffered for my attentions.’ Reluctantly, Beck withdrew, hurrying off into the night to find his own tent.

  While Mirella strapped him into his armour, Mandred spoke with Kurgaz. ‘Can you tell how close they are, or how many?’

  ‘There’s some miners could tell you how heavy each rat in the pack was by the way the stake wobbles,’ Kurgaz said. ‘But we don’t have anybody that good with us. All we know is that they’re close enough to make the ground shiver, and that’s a damn sight too close.’

  Mandred nodded grimly. ‘If we knew where they’d break surface, we could cut them down as they brewed up from their hole.’

  ‘Aye, that we could,’ Kurgaz said. ‘As it stands, however, we’ll just have to wait for them to poke their noses out.’

  At that moment, screams and shouts rang out from across the encampment. The skaven had poked their noses out, not from a single hole but from dozens. Cursing bitterly, Kurgaz unslung the warhammer from his back, the brutal weapon he’d adopted ever since Drakdrazh was stolen by the skaven.

  Mandred hastily pulled away from Mirella. Catching up Legbiter from where it rested alongside the armour stand, he ripped the runefang from its scabbard and tossed the sheath aside. The echo of his hatred blazed up in his eyes, but it was subdued by a far more important feeling – concern for the men whose lives were imperilled by the skaven assault.

  ‘Ulric grant me strength,’ Mandred prayed as he followed Kurgaz out into the carnage of battle.

  ‘Ulric grant me strength!’ the cry whistled through the bloodied face of Ar-Ulric as the old priest brought his axe cleaving down into the verminous skull of his attacker. A stagnant, retched broth of foulness bubbled up from the robed ratman’s head, a treacle too pestiferous to be called blood. The stricken thing collapsed at his feet, gnashing its fangs violently as it snapped impotently at its killer. While the thing was yet in its final death throes, another of the vermin sprang forward, trampling the dying skaven underfoot in its rabid fury to close with Ar-Ulric.

  The wolf-priest was all but surrounded now. Four of his Teutogen Guard were down, slain not by the rusted blades and cudgels of the robed skaven but by the diseased fumes billowing from the grisly censer one of the monsters bore. As the foulness had wafted across them, each of the brave warriors had collapsed, vomiting up blood and flecks of tissue as the filth scorched their insides and corrupted their flesh.

  The censer bearer itself had fallen soon afterward, overcome by the fumes of the very weapon it carried. The hooded ratman lay in a heap beside the men it had slaughtered, like a dog laid out at the feet of an ancient hero. The creature’s death, however, had done little to cheer the men fighting to defend the shrine of Ulric. Four of their number were killed almost at the onset of the fray, leaving only six to hold the shrine. Already they had cut down a score of the ratmen, yet for each skaven they killed, three more seemed to boil up from the hole to take their place.

  By accident or design, the burrow the plague monks had been digging had opened up almost directly beneath the shrine. The stone statue of Ulric in his manifestation as the God of War had nearly fallen into the pit as it opened. Indeed, the statue had been purposefully toppled from its plinth by Ar-Ulric to prevent it from being knocked into the stygian darkness. With more of the creatures swarming from similar holes throughout the encampment, Ar-Ulric and his Teutogen Guard found themselves alone.

  The heavy armour of the Teutogen Guard preserved them against the snapping fangs and stabbing blades of the ratmen. The plague monks threw themselves upon the warriors with a reckless ferocity they’d never encountered in skaven before. Foam dripped from the mouths of the ratmen, their eyes glazed with a feral madness. Again and again they would fly at the men, regardless of their own hurts. When one of the guards was finally overcome, felled by a slash across his neck, the skaven pounced up
on him, hacking his warm flesh until the shrine was coated in blood.

  Sight of the bestial savagery enflamed the outrage of Ar-Ulric and his remaining men. Howling the name of their god, they surged into the plague monks. Over and again, the priest’s axe flashed down, hewing asunder the diseased bodies of his foes. For an instant, the slaughter wrought by Ar-Ulric seemed to impress even the crazed minds of the rat-monks. The frenzied attack faltered. The creatures turned back towards their hole.

  Before the plague monks could rout, another of their number crept out from the pit. He was a wizened, shrivelled-looking ratman, his green robes embroidered with strange sigils and arcane runes. Great antlers spread from the sides of his skull-like head. The creature glared balefully at Ar-Ulric with blemished eyes that looked like scabrous pools of pus.

  A tremor of fear pulsed through Ar-Ulric as he beheld the monster. From those who had been rescued at Carroburg had come stories of this noxious beast: Puskab Foulfur, the loathsome Poxmaster of the skaven. The Black Plague, the survivors whispered, had been crafted by this inhuman sorcerer. If true, Ar-Ulric gazed upon a monster that was responsible for more death and destruction than any mortal creature since the age of Nagash the Accursed.

  Puskab chittered malignantly at his fleeing minions. He stretched forth his paw and one of the plague monks collapsed, the flesh across its body bubbling like water brought to a boil as buboes erupted across its hide. The plague priest’s object lesson had its effect on the other skaven. Squeaking and snarling, the monks returned to the attack.