by C. L. Werner
An insane giggle returned to Fellgiebel’s lips as he started to leave the cell. It was some time before he was able to compose himself, to slip back into the emotionless personality of the cruel watch captain and subdue the terrified agent of the underfolk.
‘The rats caught the rat-catcher,’ Fellgiebel laughed. There was no amusement in the laughter, only the emptiness of a man who was a traitor to his own race.
Altdorf
Vorhexen, 1111
The Palace Guard slid from Erich’s blade, clutching at the crimson stain spreading across his golden livery. The knight pushed his dying victim aside, bounding forwards to confront a second soldier who had Mihail Kretzulescu pinned against the wall. The guard swung about in alarm as he caught the sound of Erich’s approach, but before he could bring his halberd around, the knight’s sword was slashing across the man’s eyes. The blinded wreck collapsed to the floor, shrieking in agony.
Erich helped Kretzulescu out from the little niche the Sylvanian had hidden himself in. The palatine’s shoulder was deeply gashed, his black tunic damp with blood. ‘I’m afraid I’m not much use in a fight,’ he apologised. ‘It’s a different thing fighting a man than it is hunting ghouls in the marshes.’
‘At least you stood your ground,’ Erich reassured him. ‘That is all one man can demand of another.’
The sounds of conflict gradually faded away, replaced by the moans of the wounded and the dying. Erich looked down the marble-walled gallery, feeling a twinge of sadness when he saw the lush tapestries hanging on the walls befouled with blood. The sudden appearance of the rebels in the very heart of the Palace had caught the defenders unawares, putting the element of surprise firmly on their side. He knew they couldn’t count on that advantage much longer. Already servants must be carrying word of their presence. Numbers were still on the side of the Palace Guard. If the rebels were to have any chance in achieving their purpose, they had to find Emperor Boris before an overwhelming force could be marshalled against them.
To that end, Prince Sigdan had split their force the moment they gained the Palace. One group, led by the prince, had headed upwards to search the apartments of the Emperor’s private residence. Another party headed by Duke Konrad had turned to the lower floors, where the audience chambers, reception halls and more functionary chambers of the Palace were situated.
Erich had been put in charge of a group of twenty men and sent to investigate the middle levels of the Palace, the trophy rooms and show rooms, the libraries and conservatories. The indecent extravagances of Boris Goldgather had sickened the knight at every turn. He’d discovered chambers that had been emptied so that stacks of expensive stained glass might be heaped inside, layers of dust caked about their silver frames indicating the neglect to which they had fallen. Rooms stocked with camel-skin divans and alabaster vases imported from Araby, artworks from Tilea, wondrous mechanical automata from the dwarf kingdoms, all of these had suffered similar abandonment. Erich even discovered a room filled with teakwood boxes containing little painted tiles and recalled the scandal surrounding the Emperor’s extravagant purchase of a famous Estalian fresco and the king’s ransom he had paid out to have the fresco painstakingly dismantled and transported across half the Old World. That had been nearly a decade ago and the Emperor had made no effort to reassemble the fresco. It seemed once the thrill of acquisition was gone, he took no further interest in the treasures he squandered the Empire’s wealth upon.
After scouring an entire floor without a trace of another living soul, it was impressed upon Erich the exact magnitude of their labour. He could have a hundred men and several hours and still not make a proper job of it. As it stood, he hoped that Count van Sauckelhof’s prayers to Ranald weren’t being ignored.
While Erich was taking a quick count of his small force, determining that two Sylvanians had fallen in the skirmish and besides Kretzulescu there were three wounded, a loud voice began shouting triumphantly from one of the chambers leading off the gallery. Erich recognised the bellow as belonging to Baron Thornig, but what had caused his excitement the knight was at a loss to explain. Fearing the worst, he motioned the two Reiksknecht in their little group to follow him and set off at a run to find the Middenlander.
The room the shouts came from looked like an armoury, so filled was it with weapons and armour. A half-dozen corpses wearing the gold of the Palace Guard were sprawled around the doorway, showing every sign of having made a vicious effort at defence. Beyond the doorway virtually every sort of armament was on display, lying placidly upon velvet-lined tables and stands. Erich saw the thin rapiers of Estalia and the brutish axes of Kislev, the heavy lances of Bretonnia and a thorny sword-like bludgeon of inhuman origin. There seemed no pattern to the assortment of weaponry, a dwarf axe resting beside a blade of elven make, a crude orc axe beside a curved scimitar from Araby.
Then Erich noticed a gruesome horned helm of blackened iron hanging upon a silver hook, the splinters of a shadow box dangling all around it. Erich could understand why the trophy had been hidden, and why whoever had smashed the shadow box had quickly retreated. There was no mistaking that helm, not for anyone who had examined an illuminated copy of the Deus Sigmar. The knight felt a sense of awe as he stared at this relic from the founding of the Empire – the helm of Morkar the Despoiler.
At once the smallness and unimportance of his own life pressed down upon the knight’s spirit. Who was he, captain of an outlawed order of knights, to challenge the authority and legacy of the emperors? Who was he to question a power that dated back to Sigmar himself?
Despair closed its claws about his heart as he stared up at the hoary battle trophy. Erich found his grip on his sword weakening, his sense of purpose faltering. Giving up now was the only thing that made sense any more. There was no hope of victory, no triumph waiting at the end of the ordeal. Only death and humiliation and shame.
Baron Thornig’s bellow snapped Erich from the pernicious influence of the helm. The knight glared at the lifeless iron mask, sensing its malignant mockery. Now that he was aware of its influence, it seemed weaker, unable to manipulate his fear, but Erich wanted to take no chances. Cautiously, he stepped away from the relic of the ancient Chaos warlord and made his way across the room to where Thornig continued to howl and shout.
‘You’ll bring the whole Palace down on us!’ Erich snarled at the Middenlander.
Baron Thornig just smiled and pointed his fist at the table beside him. The stand was richly carved from the lip of its recessed surface to each of the clawed dragon-feet at the ends of its legs. A casing of transparent crystal covered the display, and the surface beneath the trophy ensconced below looked to be nothing less than dragonskin.
But Erich paid scant attention to these trappings of opulence. His eyes were instantly locked upon the relic itself. Like the helm of Morkar, there was no mistaking what it was. Unlike that grim trophy, however, the relic’s draw was unmistakable. Looking upon it, Erich could feel vigour surge through his veins.
‘Ghal Maraz,’ Erich whispered.
Baron Thornig laughed. ‘I thought that would be worth seeing. But it’s too damn fine to leave with a leech like Goldgather.’ So saying, the Middenlander raised his own warhammer, a weapon that seemed small and crude beside the magnificent hammer which had once filled the hands of Sigmar himself.
Erich gasped in horror, lunging to restrain Baron Thornig. ‘You don’t mean to destroy it!’ he shouted.
Baron Thornig shook him off and raised his hammer once more. ‘Of course not!’ he shouted, bringing the warhammer smashing down and shattering the crystal casing.
‘I mean to steal it!’
Chapter XVII
Altdorf
Vorhexen, 1111
Erich wiped the blood from his blade, feeling a twinge of regret as the young soldier lay bleeding at his feet. The man had fought bravely and fiercely, and despite his years he had given the knight many close moments. Experience had prevailed, however, and in the end all it had ta
ken was one ill-timed slash to allow Erich to slip past his adversary’s guard and run him through.
There were many such brave fighters lying strewn throughout the arcade overlooking the grand ballroom. Many of them wore the gold of the Palace Guard, but mixed among them were members of Baron Thornig’s retinue, several of Duke Konrad’s men and even a few of Erich’s fellow Reiksknecht. But for the timely intervention of Erich and his force, Prince Sigdan might have been repulsed and overwhelmed by Boris’s faithful defenders.
Now those defenders had been pushed back into the Harmony Salon, overlooking the ballroom. Bracing the doors with tables and chairs, the Palace Guard were making a staunch defence until Aldo Broadfellow made a suggestion. The halfling had no appetite for battle, and it took a mind such as his to conceive a better way to force entry into the salon. Instead of smashing their way into the room, the rebels piled tapestries, furnishings, paintings and anything else that looked like it might burn.
At Prince Sigdan’s order, the pile of battered finery and art was doused in lamp oil and set alight. Coils of thick black smoke boiled through the arcade, spilling out into the halls and almost choking the invaders until Duke Konrad ordered the doors to the connecting chambers thrown open and the windows smashed to vent the fumes. Count van Sauckelhof took vindictive delight in ordering the obliteration of the Emperor’s prized Kaiseraugen, hurling an iron sconce into the crystal panes as the first blow against the decadent opulence that had characterised Boris’s reign.
Before the next bell tolled from the spires of the Great Cathedral, the barricaded doorway had been reduced to smouldering rubble. The rebels shouldered their way past the flaming wreckage, pressing on into the mirror-walled room beyond. Every furnishing had been pushed up against the door, leaving only the massive hydraulis still standing. Too heavy to move, the immense water organ formed the Emperor’s last refuge. Sheltering behind its bulk, Boris Goldgather glared at his enemies as they stormed into the room.
‘Boris Hohenbach!’ Prince Sigdan shouted as he marched through the crumbling doorway, with boots scraping against the charred planks of the wood-covered floor. ‘For crimes against the Empire and its people, you are called upon to abdicate your throne and relinquish the powers you have abused and of which you are unworthy!’
The Emperor’s eyes narrowed with hate as he heard Prince Sigdan’s demand. He cast his gaze across the rebels filing into the salon, then looked over at his own depleted forces. Coughing, half-smothered by the smoke, his Palace Guard still formed ranks around him, raising their shields and drawing their swords. The black-armoured figure of Baron Peter von Kirchof stepped out from the ranks of the defenders. The Emperor smirked as he saw the faces of his enemies go pale. In all the Empire, no man was better with a sword than von Kirchof, the Emperor’s Champion.
‘I do not recognise your authority,’ Boris growled. ‘But if you think I am guilty of some injustice, then I give you leave to prove my guilt in personal combat with my representative.’
Von Kirchof acknowledge his sovereign’s words with a curt military bow. Then the champion’s sword was drawn from its sheath. A gasp of outrage rose from Duke Konrad’s lips.
‘Beast Slayer!’ the furious duke raged. ‘The Runefang of Drakwald! That blade belongs to the Count of Drakwald! You have no right to bestow it upon this… this hired killer!’
Emperor Boris leaned out from behind the water organ, his eyes glittering malignantly. ‘There is no Count of Drakwald,’ he sneered. ‘The trappings of that realm are forfeit to the Imperial Court.’
Duke Konrad started forwards, in his blind anger ready to confront even the incredible swordsmanship of Baron von Kirchof. Erich grabbed the Drakwalder by the shoulder, restraining his reckless advance.
‘We have collected trinkets too,’ Erich called out. He laughed as he saw Boris’s look of smug victory collapse as Baron Thornig held aloft Ghal Maraz. ‘What kind of emperor are you without the Hammer of Sigmar?’ the knight scoffed.
Boris reeled against the side of the organ, his face growing purple with indignation. A portly man in black robes and a physician’s cap dashed out from the little knot of courtiers who had taken shelter with their Emperor, fumbling about in his bags as he tried to administer a restorative to his sovereign. The stunned Emperor waved away the efforts of his personal physician.
‘You dare such sacrilege?’ Boris demanded, throwing his head back and fixing the conspirators with his withering gaze. ‘That is the holy hammer of our lord and saviour, Sigmar Heldenhammer, first emperor of the glorious Empire of mankind!’ A hint of a smile curled his lips as he saw doubt flash across the faces of some of the rebels. It seemed they hadn’t thought of their little revolt in terms of blasphemy and heresy. Ready to turn against Boris Hohenbach, they weren’t ready to defy Sigmar Heldenhammer. Inwardly, the Emperor sneered at their religious qualms, though outwardly he wore the mantle of pious outrage.
‘You are a fine one to speak of sacrilege,’ Erich challenged. ‘By whose order was Arch-Lector Hartwich killed?’
At once, any doubts of purpose the rebels felt were extirpated. Prince Sigdan, drawing the Runefang of Reikland from its scabbard, stalked across the charred floor. He stopped well away from von Kirchof, looking past the champion to the tyrant hiding behind the hydraulis. ‘Archers!’ the Prince of Altdorf cried and at his command ten Drakwald bowmen nocked arrows and took aim.
‘I will not play your games, Goldgather,’ the prince declared. ‘You will abdicate now, relinquish all claim upon the crown, or we will burn this room and every-one in it. Anyone who makes a move to stop us will be shot down.’ He turned his head at a flash of purple cloth amongst the courtiers. ‘If your pet warlock makes another move, if he even breathes wrong, he can be the first to die.’ Karl-Maria Fleischauer did a perfect impression of a statue as the threat reached the warlock’s ears.
Prince Sigdan smiled coldly as he saw the resignation on Boris’s face, as the Emperor’s shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘Fetch quill and parchment!’ he ordered Baron von Klauswitz. ‘His Imperial Majesty has one last diktat to write down.’
While the rebels were storming their way into the Harmony Salon, a different assault was unfolding at the gates of the Imperial Palace. The siege of the Courts of Justice having been broken, the Kaiserknecht, supported by troops from both the Schuetzenverein and the Kaiserjaeger, began a vicious attack. Bowmen loosed arrows at the rebels holding the gate while the knights brought the stout gibbet-post from the Widows’ Plaza to employ as a ram against the portals themselves.
Despite the viciousness and energy of the attack, the rebels soon discovered it was nothing more than a diversion. Having guessed the strategy of the conspirators, Commander Kreyssig decided to use their own tricks against them. While the rebels were looking outwards, Kreyssig led a force through the escape tunnels – those of modern vintage and with an entrance underneath a nondescript wine shop – to effect a clandestine entry to the Palace.
Once inside, Kreyssig sent the bulk of his troops to attack the defenders at the gates from behind. When the gates were thrown open, the rebels would have no hope of holding the Palace. Indeed, there was only one thing that could still carry the day for them. Detaching twenty men from his main force, including the hulking Scharfrichter Gottwald Drechsler, Kreyssig hastened to locate Emperor Boris.
He was under no delusion that his fate was not dependent upon the safety of His Imperial Majesty. Without the protection and patronage of Boris Goldgather, Kreyssig would be a man alone, cast out to suffer the retribution of the nobility. If he would save his own skin, he had to save the Emperor’s crown.
A frantic halfling messenger from the gate rushed into the salon, bearing word that they were under attack by the Emperor’s soldiers. The news sobered the jubilant conspirators. The inmates of the salon had been disarmed and herded against the wall. Emperor Boris had been coerced into signing his own abdication and affixing the Imperial Seal to it. A feeling of triumph had gripped them all, a sens
e that everything would soon be set right.
‘Give up now, and I promise you will only suffer exile,’ Boris said as he heard the report. He extended his ring-laden hand to reclaim the diktat held by Prince Sigdan.
Prince Sigdan laughed at the scheming tyrant. ‘I would expect the same mercy you showed Grand Master von Schomberg,’ he said. ‘And I wouldn’t be too excited. We anticipated this. You above all people should know how well stocked the cellars of the Palace are. I imagine we could endure a whole year under siege. And by then, your enemies – and I assure you they are many – will flock to Altdorf to ensure you abide by this proclamation.’
A snarl on his face, Boris leaned back against the water organ, sending a sickly note from the instrument as his elbow pressed down on the keys. Aldo Broadfellow grinned at the defeated tyrant, making a great display of his bare, hairy feet. The halfling elder turned to Prince Sigdan.
‘I have a request,’ Aldo said. ‘Now that he’s not emperor any more, I’d like to see him take off his shoes.’ The halfling wiggled his bare toes. ‘It’ll be recompense for all the times he made me wear boots.’
The request brought a much needed laugh to the rebels, but their laughter faded when a second messenger came racing into the salon.
‘The gates have fallen!’ the halfling squealed. ‘Somehow Kaiserjaeger got inside the Palace and attacked our men from behind!’
The conspirators went pale, the last flush of victory draining out of them like blood from a corpse.
Boris Goldgather rose from beside the water organ and held out his hand. ‘Give me that parchment,’ he told Prince Sigdan. ‘If you surrender before my men get here, I promise I will still be lenient. But I suggest you hurry. My offer will expire very shortly.