Luthor Huss
The sermon at Erengrad
In the heart of the mountains, a wide valley had been carved from the sheer rock by millennia of scraping ice. Like the rest of the highlands, it was bleak and barren. The rock was grey-banded granite, abrasive to the touch and tough as the bones of dragons. On all sides of the valley, the cliffs rose up tall and sheer. Their summits were jagged and impassable. Snow still clung to the uttermost peaks. The wind tore through the narrow gaps and skirled across the valley floor, tousling the few plants that grew and scraping the rock ever drier.
At the southern end of the valley there was a break in the otherwise perfect wall of cliffs. From this gap, the trail to Morgramgar wound steadily, picking its way across the desolate valley floor and looping around the many piles of boulders and mighty stone formations. The outcrops of rock were massive, and stood like the statues of some long-forgotten race of giants amidst the emptiness. An observant traveller, if any had existed so far into the wilds, might have picked out strange shapes on their flanks, almost like carvings. No doubt he would have put them down to the wind. In such a barren place, what else could they be?
The path ran for three miles before it reached the head of the valley. There, the mighty cliffs rose up once more, sealing the enclosed space in a circus of stone. Beyond those vast ramparts, there was no more travelling. The peaks piled up on top of one another, rising ever higher, until the land and sky seemed to meet in a haze of distant whiteness. The road ended.
At the point where the trail gave out, a mighty spur of black rock jutted out from the base of the towering cliffs. Unlike the dove-grey stone around it, the spur glistened darkly from many chiselled facets. It didn’t belong. It looked like it had been hurled down from the heavens in some ancient war among the gods. It was shaped like the prow of a ship, sloping upwards and into the air of the valley. The wind broke across it, and no snow marred its surface. It was cold, hard and as slick as glass.
On top of the spur, a hundred feet above the valley floor, rose the isolated citadel of Morgramgar. The point where its dark walls met the stone below was indistinct. It seemed to loom from the cliffs around it, like some spell-induced growth from the roots of the mountains themselves.
Its base was solid and angular. The walls were arranged in a star shape with five points facing outwards. The blocks of stone were massive, each one the size of a peasant’s hovel. They were rectangular and smooth, fitted together so perfectly that the joins were barely visible. The windows in that sheer surface were few. Every so often, a narrow shaft could be seen, set back far into the heavy stone and lined with iron. Pale illumination shone from some. In others, a deep red glow bled out into the cold air. Near the base of the citadel, the noise of a low throbbing could be made out, as if some vast machine was turning in the stone beneath. The rocks reverberated with it, sending a faint hum out into the valley beyond.
Further up the flanks of the citadel, the walls became taller and thinner. A cluster of towers burst from the foundations. They were slender and angular, clad in the same dark stone and topped with razor-sharp turrets. Flying bridges and twisting balustrades ran between them, fragile and perilous-looking in the high airs. Where there were windows, they glowed an eerie pale green. The narrow slots had glass panes in them, and strange shapes were carved around the frames. The stone was scored and pitted with age. Drab banners hung from the highest balconies. Once, the emblem of Hochland had been displayed proudly by loyal margraves. Now new insignias had taken their place. A long sable standard hung from the highest tower. It was unmarked, save for a grotesque death’s head etched in crude lines of white. The hollow eyes gazed back down the empty gorge, daring any intruders to approach it.
At the top of the central tower, a soaring pinnacle which reached several hundred feet above the plain below, a large chamber had been constructed. It was too big for its base, and sat awkwardly atop the dark and forbidding citadel. More pale green light leaked from its many windows. More so than the death’s head below, the chamber gave off the aspect of a terrible, sentient awareness. It was as if the windows were eyes and the jagged roof above it the horns of some ossified daemonic entity. Chains hung in great loops from beneath its overhanging eaves, clanking and swaying in the ever-present wind.
Within that chamber, Anna-Louisa had set her seat, and peered south across the valley. Her mighty armies were housed below, stationed in the vast halls that ran beneath the walls. The real glory of Morgramgar was not in its jagged pinnacles and towers. Deep within the foundations, ancient workings scored their way into the shadows beneath. There were massive chambers in the stone. Over the centuries, they had been allowed to fall into disrepair. That had changed. Now they were full of provisions, armaments, billeted men and, so rumour had it, deadly machines of war. Morgramgar had been restored, turned into a place of death, a citadel against which armies would break themselves like stones under the hammer.
On a narrow balcony overlooking the plain, set halfway up the sheer walls of the central tower, two men stood. They were both clothed in black, and their hair rustled in the chill air.
‘They will be here soon,’ said one of them.
He was a high-browed man with receding dark hair. His skin was pale and his eyes had deep bags under them. He looked like the kind of man who spent his days in the dark, by the forge, or in long-forgotten subterranean chambers. He wore a heavy amulet of silver around his neck. His cloak was of fine quality, and a collar of ermine trimmed his neck. He would have passed for a noble-born in many cities of the Empire, but some features of low birth gave him away. His gnarled hands spoke of manual labour, and he stooped as he stood, almost as if he expected some blow to rain down on him from a superior. Despite this, his gaze was proud. His lips curled around the words as he spoke.
‘Indeed so, Rathmor,’ said the second. ‘But they’ve been blooded. We could have hoped for little more.’
Rathmor’s companion was cut from different cloth. Though he wore the same dark robes, his frame was heavy. He had a neatly clipped silver beard and a mane of white hair to his shoulders. His features were blunt, and his skin was tanned and weather-beaten. Like Rathmor, his hands were scored by years of labour, but from wielding swords and shields rather than the machines of the forge. He bore himself proudly, leaning into the wind, his wide shoulders set back. He had the look of a man who feared little and ran from nothing. A warrior, then. Unlike his companion.
‘I do not like your complacence, Esselman,’ said Rathmor, pursing his thin lips distastefully. ‘We don’t have unlimited resources, despite her largesse. We lost too many of our men when you persuaded her to march against the first of these armies. I still think that was a mistake.’
Esselman sneered at the smaller man, not bothering to hide his contempt.
‘What would you have done?’ he asked. ‘Stayed here, crouching behind your walls as they came to get you? You’re a coward, Rathmor. I can’t fathom what the lady sees in you.’
Rathmor took the insult in his stride, as if he was quite used to it.
‘What she sees in me is my incomparable genius,’ he said, unselfconsciously. ‘If I weren’t here, you’d be nothing more than a rabble, squatting in the mountains waiting for your mistress to drag you out to your deaths. Admit it, Esselman. Without the modifications to your guns, you’d never have crushed Ludenhof’s men.’
Esselman shrugged.
‘We had the advantage of surprise,’ he said. ‘But I admit you’ve improved our range. Which is why we should have ridden to engage them again. This hiding and fleeing is hateful.’
Rathmor let a superior smile creep across his features.
‘You’re a warrior,’ he said. ‘All you think of is standing up and fighting. If the Empire were run by the likes of you, we’d be little better off than the beastmen.’
He leaned over the edge of the balcony, peering down towards the outer walls, far be
low. The sound of the muffled workings wafted upwards. A faint tremor could be sensed in the stone itself. It was as if all Morgramgar was a giant machine, and they were merely passengers on it.
‘You’re backward-looking,’ said Rathmor, looking at the iron and stone around him. ‘You belong to the past, when men hid from monsters in the shadows like children. The new science is everything. Blackpowder machines. With such tools, we could banish the scourge of Chaos forever. Even the elves would sit at our feet as slaves, and man would be master of the world.’
There was a strange light in the man’s eyes as he spoke. Esselman looked weary. He had heard the speech a dozen times.
‘Your toys are useful,’ he said, grudgingly. ‘The lady likes them. That’s why we tolerate you. But they’ll never replace a good man with a sword. Don’t get carried away.’
Rathmor’s expression wasn’t dented. He was lost in a reverie of his own.
‘A man with a sword?’ he repeated, mockingly. ‘Can a man with a sword fell a marauder at a hundred paces? Can he tunnel down to the deep ores and extract gold from the roots of the world? Can he throw fire into the air and immolate whole companies of our enemies?’
He laughed scornfully.
‘Your age is passing, old warrior,’ said Rathmor, gleefully. ‘A new time is coming. The time of steel and steam. All it takes is vision. The Emperor will never allow it. There are too many in Altdorf with closed eyes and slow minds. But they’ll see. When the spring comes and we sweep down from the mountains, then they’ll see. The Empire needs shaking to its rotten core.’
Esselman’s face remained impassive.
‘So you keep saying,’ he said. ‘You’ve convinced von Kleister. How you did it, I’ll never know. But you have, and so here we are. Stuck in a hold in the mountains. We’ve turned Ludenhof against us, and if we ever escape Hochland we’ll have the armies of three more states hard on our heels. Your strategy’s worked a charm so far.’
Rathmor’s laugh was replaced by a scowl. His expressions changed quickly, like a child’s. On the fringes of his wizened, clever face there was an air of petulance.
‘Things are just as they should be,’ he said. ‘Our strength is still growing. The machines aren’t complete. We just need time. Morgramgar is impregnable. We’ll wait out the siege, hold for our moment. This army will be destroyed, just as the first was. The rumour of our success, and the gold beneath our feet, will spread. When the time is right, we will march south. But only then. Not before.’
Esselman gave the man a warning look.
‘Remember your place, Rathmor,’ he said. ‘The lady tolerates you, but I’m the master of her armies. I need your machines, but I won’t be dictated to. We’ll march when I say so.’
Rathmor gave a mock bow, his sardonic smile returning.
‘Of course, my lord,’ he said, silkily. ‘Yours will be the word of command for the men. But we still need more time. The forges are busy, but we cannot rush the work. There is still much to learn, much to discover.’
Esselman turned back towards the empty valley stretching before them. There was still no sign of the approaching army. No living creature stirred against the bleak backdrop of granite.
‘Is the infernal engine ready?’ he asked. ‘That’s the one thing I’m interested in. That’s something I could use.’
Rathmor gave Esselman a knowing look, almost a leer, and shook his head.
‘Patience, my good general,’ he said. ‘It needs more work. I would not send it out against such a rabble. Its time will come when we are fully revealed at last. Then the whole Empire will see the greatness of my work. Just as they should have done, all that time ago. They were fools then, and they’re fools now. We have nothing to fear from any of them.’
Esselman didn’t share Rathmor’s look of confidence. He squinted his eyes against the pale southern horizon, scanning carefully for any sign of movement.
‘You can keep it under wraps for now,’ he said, gruffly. ‘The lady agrees with you. But if it’s needed to break this siege, I’ll call on you again. I won’t stay cooped up in here forever. A man should take the fight to the enemy when he can.’
Rathmor didn’t like the sound of that, and said nothing. He flexed his crooked fingers against the stone balustrade and rocked back on his heels. He seemed ill at ease standing still. His whole body itched for some kind of activity. He cut a nervous, strained figure next to his more assured companion.
‘Your impatience will ruin everything,’ he muttered. ‘We have all we need. Gold, men, the citadel and the support of the lady. I’ll say it again. All we need is time. Time to perfect the machines. Hochland has no engineers capable of breaching these walls. They’re a race of goatherds and drunkards. Wait a little longer. When all is ready, I will give you your war.’
Rathmor’s speech became more excited. He was drifting into a reverie again.
‘You will ride into Hergig at the head of an army the likes of which the world has never seen. If you think the weapons I’ve given you so far are good, wait till you see what’s coming from the forges. If I could somehow do without the necessity of flesh to man my creations, I would. That’s the only weak link. Otherwise my machines are perfect.’
Esselman recoiled slightly from Rathmor. The two men clearly had different philosophies.
‘I sometimes wonder,’ he said, slowly, ‘why you didn’t stay at Nuln. If your genius was so evident, they would surely have made some use of you.’
A look of aversion filled Rathmor’s eyes, and he rocked back away from the balcony’s edge.
‘Everything has its price!’ he said, his voice rising in pitch. ‘What does it matter that a few men died? That’s the price of progress!’
A sneer crept across his womanish lips again.
‘They couldn’t pay it,’ he said. ‘We had to leave. Me, and the other one. We both had to leave. All the visionaries did. They’re as blind as their masters in Altdorf.’
Esselman looked at Rathmor with distaste. The little man was consumed by a sudden vitriol. His hands shook, and spittle flew as he spoke.
‘That, my friend, will be the sweetest moment,’ Rathmor said. ‘Only when the walls of Nuln are besieged with ranks of the infernal machines. Only when the college is wreathed in fire, flames they cannot put out, will I return. Only when they’re on their knees, begging for forgiveness and to recognise my genius, will I deign to speak to them again. The dogs. The damned, blighted dogs! Only then will I go back.’
Rathmor’s speech had become shrill and repetitious. He shook slightly, and the strange rocking motion started up again. Esselman stepped away from him, looking revolted.
He was about to speak, when a chime sounded deep within the tower behind them. Both men froze. Rathmor’s face was already pale. It seemed to lose even more blood in an instant.
‘What does she want?’ he hissed, looking at the skull-like chamber suspended above them. The light from the stained-glass windows was green and sinister.
‘Who knows?’ said Esselman, taking a final look down the valley. It remained empty. ‘But I’m not going to keep her waiting. You’d better come too.’
The echoing chime sounded again. It was strangely redolent of a child’s toy. A glockenspiel, or a clockwork model. And yet its effect on the men was immediate. With a look of extreme reluctance, Rathmor smoothed his dark clothes over his chest, and steadied his shaking fingers.
‘Damn her,’ he whispered, looking extremely perturbed.
‘Don’t let her hear you say that,’ replied Esselman. ‘Genius or not, you’d better keep that tongue under control.’
Slowly, with reluctant steps, the two men withdrew from the balcony and retreated into the tower behind them. Unseen hands slammed the doors shut. The chill breeze wafted across the vacant platform.
With their passing, no other movement was visible on the spiked battl
ements. No watchmen patrolled, no scouts rode from the gates, no defenders paced across the bleak courtyards. But from deep below, Rathmor’s engines continued their ceaseless grinding. The chains below the high chamber swung in the wind, and the hidden forges burned. Like some nightmare creation suddenly bereft of human controllers, Morgramgar waited for the coming battle, its mysteries hidden for the moment, its depths uncovered, its terrors veiled.
Chapter Nine
‘What limits their powers, these engineering geniuses? I am not sure that anything does, apart from the moral law given us by Sigmar and Verena. If the engineer was allowed to indulge his every speculation without constraint, then the race of man would soon descend into barbarism. There are sketches of machines in the vaults of the college that defy belief. I have been shown them. Unholy amalgamations of human flesh and iron workings. Mixtures of steam technology and the art of the wizard. These things must never be allowed to see the light of day. You have my word that I am a supporter of the new science, but perversion is perversion, wherever it is found, and a matter for the witch hunters.’
Elector Emmanuelle von Leibwitz
XVth Report of the Imperial Commission
on the College of Engineers
At last, Morgramgar had come into view. The vanguard climbed the final few yards up a slope of loose scree, and the valley unfolded before them. The citadel was a mere speck of darkness against the distant cliffs. Only as the army marched down the bare valley floor did its true scale become apparent. The fortress was small only in comparison with the gigantic cliffs behind it. An observer on the ground could see its titanic scale well enough.
Scharnhorst maintained his habitual pace, and the road was traversed quickly. The victory against the snipers had restored the spirits of both men and commanders. Half a mile from the enemy ramparts, the general called a halt. The various companies spread out across the plain. All eyes were fixed on the dark, strange edifice before them. Morgramgar was a twisted construction. In the harsh mountain light, it looked almost as if it had been forged from iron rather than built up from stone. There was no sign of movement anywhere near it. The road leading to the gates was silent. The massive entrance was shut. Doors of age-stained wood were enclosed in a frame of black metal. The portal was carved into the shape of a gaping wolf’s mouth. Two eyes burned above the lintel with some strange fire. Even in the harsh daylight, the effect was unsettling.
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