Blighted Empire tbp-2

by C. L. Werner

Vidor von Tolkesdorf, Duke of Weissbruck and Margrave of the Helmwald, shifted the steel helm he held under his arm, brandishing it like a cudgel at the man seated behind the desk, provoking an uneasy squirm from the pink-faced noble. Duke Vidor sneered. Lord Ratimir was typical of the men who made up the Imperial court, decadent blue-bloods who had grown soft from the ease of luxury. The least display of force, the smallest threat of danger, and they capitulated to any outrage. Even that of taking orders from a low-born peasant.

  ‘I don’t care how many serfs that dung-scraping low-born has in his vaunted Kaiserjaeger,’ Duke Vidor growled. ‘The Emperor knows my loyalty. He knows there is no more staunch a supporter of his crown than myself!’

  Lord Ratimir shook his head, making soft tutting sounds. ‘Things are quite different than when you left Altdorf to hunt the errant Reiksmarshal,’ he warned. ‘His Imperial Majesty has had two years to reflect upon the conspiracy that nearly took that crown away from him. Need I say that it has been Adolf Kreyssig and his Kaiserjaeger who have been investigating that conspiracy and dragging more traitors into the light? It would be unwise… and unhealthy… to make an enemy of the man. Whatever the quality of his blood.’

  Duke Vidor turned away from the desk, pacing across the office of the Imperial Minister of Finance. ‘He knows my loyalty,’ he stated, conviction in his tone. ‘I chased that scoundrel Boeckenfoerde across the eastern provinces for eighteen months. Drove that rabble of Dienstleute clear into the Ungol wastes!’

  Ratimir’s sickly countenance was made more grotesque by the smug expression he wore. ‘All true, Vidor, but what have you done lately for His Imperial Majesty?’ He leaned back in his chair, savouring the look of dawning awareness in his visitor’s eyes. ‘Yes, you’ve eliminated the threat of Boeckenfoerde marching his scum on Altdorf. That very accomplishment makes you dangerous. It means you are a strong strategist and a capable leader of men — both qualities that have proven treacherous towards the Emperor in the recent past.’

  Frowning, the duke leaned across the desk. ‘What will the Emperor do?’ he scoffed. ‘Surround himself with incompetents simply because they are too stupid to be dangerous to him?’

  ‘No,’ Ratimir conceded. ‘He will surround himself with men who he himself has created. Creatures like Kreyssig who owe their status and position solely to the beneficence of His Imperial Majesty. Blood and breeding are becoming questionable assets, Vidor. The Emperor doesn’t trust men who feel they are entitled to wealth and station.’

  Duke Vidor stood back, aghast at the implication. It was already well known that Emperor Boris had ordered the confiscation of all property owned by Prince Sigdan and his fellow conspirators, their titles abolished and their possessions forfeit to the crown. What Ratimir was suggesting went even further: outright suppression of the nobility!

  ‘He knows my loyalty,’ Vidor protested, rejecting the fears Ratimir had stirred up.

  Ratimir laughed softly, the effort almost choking him. With a trembling hand, he removed a pomander from his frilled sleeve and drew deeply upon its fragrant vapours. ‘It is not the Emperor you must convince of your loyalty,’ he said when the fit had passed. ‘It is the Protector he leaves behind in his stead.’

  ‘I bow to no peasant,’ Vidor snarled. ‘No noble-born man will!’

  Again, Ratimir shook his head. ‘After the example of Prince Sigdan, I think you will find that the nobles will put up with a great deal if it keeps them from the wrong side of an axe.’

  The light streaming through the Kaiseraugen was like the glimmer of a thousand jewels, a dazzling display that caught the breath and captivated the soul. The stained glass was the handiwork of the finest glaziers in Karak Norn, produced and transported at enormous expense. A lesser monarch might have shuddered at the cost, but Emperor Boris wasn’t some petty border baron or country count. He was supreme leader of the mightiest realm of man in the known world and such insignificance was beneath his concern. If there were anything troublesome, it was the added expenditure to hurry the project along. It was never cheap to hurry a dwarf.

  As he watched the diminutive craftsmen bustling about the half-restored window overlooking the Reik and the sprawl of Altdorf, Boris felt strength course through him. Only he could afford to exert such authority, to take an act of vandalous destruction and turn it into a thing more magnificent than before. The traitors who had smashed the original picture window were to be thanked for their mindless atrocity. The new Kaiseraugen would be even greater, a wonder of human achievement and artistry! The stained glass and silver panes would lend it an unparalleled glamour, like a rainbow bound and imprisoned against the face of the Imperial Palace. When it was complete, this hall would sparkle like a treasure vault.

  Watching the dwarfs work, Boris’s gaze strayed to the open, incomplete section of the window. For a moment, he felt his attention drawn to the ugly blemish of the city below, the dilapidated structures and deserted streets, the sprawl of refugee camps beyond the walls and the hideous spectre of funeral pyres. Quickly he turned away. He would be happy when all the stained glass was in place and blotted out the noxious vision.

  Composing himself, Boris marched across the hall and into the gallery beyond. It was unseemly to let something disturb his Imperial poise. When he returned from Carroburg, such things would be in the past. The plague would run its course soon and then things could get back to normal. And if not… Well, the dwarfs would certainly be finished with their work by then.

  In the gallery, Boris was joined by a bodyguard of picked men from the Kaiserknecht and the menacing figure of Baron Pieter von Kirchof, the Emperor’s Champion. It was von Kirchof who had stood by Boris during the insurrection of Prince Sigdan. More than his unmatched prowess with the sword, it was this unwavering loyalty that had earned him the indulgence of his Emperor. Boris had heaped riches on his champion, allocating several of the confiscated lands to the von Kirchof family. Now, he was prepared to grant his favoured vassal another boon.

  But first he wanted to hear von Kirchof beg.

  ‘The construction goes well, Your Imperial Majesty?’ the baron asked as the monarch and his retinue marched down the hall.

  Boris took his time before acknowledging that he’d heard his minion speak. Von Kirchof was too well bred to dare decorum by addressing the Emperor again without some response. It was a useful thing, courtly breeding. It conditioned proud men to submit without question.

  The Emperor halted before a long mural depicting one of the expansionist campaigns waged by his long-dead predecessor Frederick in the Ungol-infested oblast of the north. His guards immediately formed a circle around him, hands falling to the hilts of swords. Silently they waited for whatever fancy had made their sovereign pause to pass. Boris smiled at their impatience. They would never give it voice, never admit it even to themselves, but it was there and it was held hostage by nothing save his own authority.

  ‘Tell Us again of this girl, von Kirchof,’ Boris said at last, his eyes still studying the tapestry. He didn’t need to turn to know the desperate hope that shone in the eyes of his champion.

  ‘She is my niece, Your Imperial Majesty,’ the baron explained, an explanation he had made many times before. ‘There is plague in my sister’s fief. It has been most rapacious in her lands and I… She fears for the girl’s safety. I would bring her to Altdorf, but the plague is worse here and…’

  ‘And we are leaving for Carroburg,’ the Emperor finished for him.

  Baron von Kirchof stiffened and made an embarrassed bow. ‘I was hoping that you would condescend to allow my niece to join the procession to Carroburg.’

  Boris turned away from the tapestry, directing a hard look into his champion’s eyes, holding him in the grip of that stare until the baron was compelled to look away. ‘The plague is getting worse,’ he stated. ‘That is why We are leaving Altdorf and seeking the safety of seclusion in the Schloss Hohenbach in the Drakwald. With us We are taking the most powerful personages in the Empire. Grand duke
s, arch-counts and great princes.’

  Baron von Kirchof kept his eyes downcast. ‘I know it is…’

  ‘How old is the child?’ Boris asked suddenly, interrupting the apology.

  Von Kirchof brightened at the inquiry. ‘She has just passed her nineteenth winter,’ he said.

  ‘Hardly a “girl” then,’ Boris scoffed, toying with the ermine fringe of his imperial robes. ‘If she is pretty, you may bring her along,’ he said, making the declaration sound as weighty as any affair of state. ‘The castle is quite gloomy, as We recall. We shall need a few pretty things to brighten it up while We are there.’ He raised a warning finger before the baron could thank him. ‘We warn you, the maiden had best be as fair as you attest her to be.’

  Boris left the consequences of his disappointment unsaid. As Emperor, there were a great many things he could do to someone who displeased him. He had always found that it was more effective to leave his subjects wondering which of those things was to be their punishment.

  No fear was greater than the terror born in a man’s own imagination.

  Blinded by the flickering glow of a rushlight, it was some time before Princess Erna von Thornig realised she was no longer alone in her dingy cell. As the red blur that had flooded across her light-starved eyes gradually faded, she found two men standing beside the iron-banded door. The chill of her dungeon apartment was nothing beside the chill that gripped her heart as she recognised her visitors.

  The stocky, overweight one with the frilled shirt and sombre livery was Fuerst. The other man, his sickly pallor and scarred face rendered still more grotesque by the shadows cast by the rushlight, was Fuerst’s master, Adolf Kreyssig, Commander of the Kaiserjaeger and now Protector of the Empire. The villain who had murdered her father and cast her into this prison.

  The fiend who was her husband.

  An ophidian smile stretched across Kreyssig’s face as he watched Erna cringe away from him, her trembling hands clutching the heavy length of chain that connected her to an iron ring set into the wall. He slapped a leather riding crop against his leg, savouring the fear he saw in his wife’s eyes. It had taken much time and effort to put that fear there, to beat the boldness out of her. Breaking Erna’s spirit had become something of a hobby for him. One that he had enjoyed immensely.

  ‘Don’t get up,’ Kreyssig hissed at her. ‘I am afraid that I don’t have much time to squander with you today. His Imperial Majesty is going to officially proclaim me Protector of the Empire in the Great Cathedral of Sigmar.’ For just an instant, he saw hate burn its way through the fear in her eyes. He slashed the riding crop at her, being sure to strike low enough that the brand wouldn’t be visible in public. The strip of sackcloth draped about Erna’s body did nothing to retard the blow. Still, his words had awakened some residue of noble pride and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. Kreyssig drew his arm back to whip her again.

  ‘Your lordship!’ Fuerst protested, grabbing Kreyssig’s arm. ‘His Imperial Majesty has ordered the baroness to attend him when he travels. He will be displeased if…’

  Kreyssig rounded on his servant, turning the crop against him and slashing it down his back. He turned and glared at Erna, then returned his attention to Fuerst. ‘Get the bitch presentable,’ he snarled before storming from the cell.

  Fuerst bowed until the door closed behind Kreyssig, then he turned back to the captive baroness. ‘I am sorry, your ladyship, but you know better than to bait him.’

  ‘The worst he can do is kill me,’ Erna stated, her awakened pride sinking back beneath a torrent of despair. She looked up at Fuerst, managing a weak smile for his benefit. ‘He would have killed me already if not for you.’

  Fuerst glanced away, colour rising in his cheeks. ‘No, your ladyship, you pay me too much favour. The commander does nothing without reason. Even after you tried to… Even then he made no move to execute you, even petitioned the Emperor for clemency.’ Fuerst’s voice dropped to an embarrassed whisper. ‘With your father dead, you are now baroness. It is only through his connection to you that the commander may make any pretension of moving among the aristocracy. Without you, he is just a peasant.’

  Erna leaned against the stone wall, her chains rattling against the floor. ‘He is a monster,’ she said, her voice hollow and bitter. ‘I thought I knew what he was when I agreed to kill him, but I didn’t. The barbarians who sacked Marienburg are more human than that beast!’ She held her hands across her face, shuddering as a new horror impressed itself on her mind. ‘Now this animal is going to be Protector of the Empire.’

  Fuerst drew closer, excitement in his tone. ‘That is where you have a chance!’ he exclaimed. ‘Emperor Boris might trust the commander more than the nobles, but he doesn’t trust anyone fully. That is why he has decreed that you are to accompany him to Carroburg.’ Wearing a broad smile, Fuerst unfolded the clothes he carried across his arm, displaying for Erna one of her finest gowns. ‘The Emperor knows that it is through you that the commander is able to claim the status of a noble. He feels that by keeping you with him, it will give him a hold over the commander.’

  Reaching forwards, Erna let her fingers slide down the soft smoothness of her gown. ‘So I trade one captor for another,’ she mused.

  Fuerst shrugged and pointed at the dank walls of the cramped cell, at the straw pallet and sackcloth shift. ‘It can’t be worse than this,’ he said.

  Erna took the gown from Fuerst, hugging it to her breast. ‘No, it can’t,’ she answered before her voice collapsed into an inarticulate sob. Years of torture and isolation — could they finally be at an end? Even as Fuerst unlocked the shackle from her wrist, Erna expected her husband and a gang of Kaiserjaeger to come bursting through the door. It was just the sort of cruelty that would appeal to Kreyssig’s humour, to build up hope and then smash it in the most brutal manner possible.

  Only when she was dressed and unchained, being led by Fuerst out into the corridor beyond her cell, did Erna accept that her release was real. She had been traded, given into the keeping of Emperor Boris as hostage for her husband’s loyalty. Her life against that of every man, woman and child in the Empire.

  Ulric have mercy, but to escape the clutches of Kreyssig, Erna was willing to make such a monstrous bargain.

  Mordheim

  Ulriczeit, 1112

  Across the curtain of night, the ponderous notes of temple bells reminded the denizens of the city that even in the darkest hour, when the powers of Old Night waxed strong, the gods were still watching. It was a sound that had once brought comfort and solace to the simple, superstitious folk. The thought that the gods remained vigilant when the creatures of darkness were abroad, when ghouls stalked graveyards, when witches flew through the blackened sky and skin-wolves prowled under shadowed trees.

  Of late, however, the voice of the temple bells had taken on a bitter, mocking quality. The Black Plague was abroad, slaughtering old and young, pious and impious, peasant and noble with equal rapacity. If the gods were still watching over mankind, not the wisest of priests could explain their indifference to its suffering.

  Ensconced within the cold stone-walled fastness of his chambers, one of those suffering masses looked up from the documents spread across the table before him. He closed his eyes and listened to the bells tolling away the hour. There was another sound, softer yet nearer, a low wailing that filtered through the ancient halls. It was a haunting, melancholy sound, the animate voice of anguish and loss and regret.

  Regret? That word brought a cynical curl to the man’s pale, pinched face. He swept a jewelled hand through a mane of luxuriant black hair and leaned back in his gilded chair. There was a suggestion of sardonic amusement in his eyes as he stared down at the scrolls and parchment sheaves piled before him. Like a dragon perched atop its hoard, he hovered above the heap. It would take the treasure of a dragon to rival the wealth laid out on the table, for it was a tangible representation of the lands and holdings that went with the title Baron von Diehl.

/>   A title that had finally passed from Hjalmar von Diehl to his son Lothar.

  That transition of wealth and authority had been a long time taking shape. The old baron had been a long time about dying. Towards the last, it had become something of a race to see whether the father would exhaust the legacy of the von Diehls on alchemists and physicians and generous tithes to the temples in a desperate bid to bribe the gods to intercede.

  Many times, Lothar had despaired, wondered if he shouldn’t employ cudgel or dagger to effect his father’s speedy demise. Such impatient temptations were fought back only by the fiercest exertion of will. The spells were doing their work. Slowly but surely his father’s vitality had been ebbing, leeched away by phantom parasites neither priest nor physician could discover. When the old baron died, there were none who thought of murder. To even the most suspicious, there was never a notion that the baron was anything but another victim of the Black Plague.

  Lothar set a covetous hand against the stack of deeds that represented ownership of three-quarters of Mordheim’s riverfront. He smiled as he saw a promissory note from Count Steinhardt himself peeking out from beneath the pile. Great and small, many were those who must credit the Baron von Diehl for their prosperity.

  Rising from behind the table, Lothar paced across the cheerless confines of his study. Prosperity had become a bitter word to the people of Mordheim, a mocking echo of better times. With over half the city carried off by the plague, the fields beyond the walls invaded by starving refugees, the violence in Talabecland choking off what river trade still flowed into Ostermark, Mordheim was in the throes of her own slow death.

  It was the natural order of things, Lothar mused. People and places were fated to grow, thrive and prosper for a season, but then must come that time when they would wither, decay and die. Not the gods themselves could defy the laws of fate.

  A cold smile formed across Lothar’s face. The only way a man could ensure his accomplishments was to set himself outside the tyrannical dictates of fate. His grandfather had awakened to that revelation, but had lacked the fortitude to pursue his studies fully. His father, with pious horror, had rejected the researches of the elder von Diehl, burning his books and papers when the barony came into his possession. Hjalmar had been thorough in his fiery purge, but not perfect. A few tomes slipped his notice, and eventually those volumes of forbidden lore had found their way into Lothar’s hands. The seeds of the grandfather’s work found fertile soil in the grandson’s mind.