C. Werner - Blighted Empire

Turning away from the portrait, Lothar shook his head and tried to blot out the faint wail of professional mourners that wafted through the castle halls. What had been done was done. The bridge had been crossed, the decision made. It would, he vowed to himself, be worth it.

All at once, Lothar’s attention was drawn to a tall shelf sunk into the wall at the far corner of the room. The bronze figure of a wolf stood upon one of the shelves, a hammer and bell clenched in its rampant paws. While he watched, the statue revolved from side to side, causing hammer to strike bell and send a tinkling note through the chamber. Lothar watched the gyrations of the figure as he stalked over to a bell-pull beside the hearth. One sharp tug would set an alarm that would see a dozen men-at-arms swarm into the room.

Lothar bided his time, hand poised about the bell-pull, eyes fixed on the bronze wolf and the shelf it rested upon. While he watched, the shelf began to move, rotating away from the wall and exposing a dark passageway with stairs descending into the black depths beneath the Schloss von Diehl.

Lothar relaxed and walked back to his table when he recognised the figure who emerged from the darkness. He was a stocky, fat-faced man with ruddy complexion and bulbous nose. His raiment was simple, lacking the costly dyes and embroidery of the noble classes, yet of immaculate condition and quality. The overall impression was that of a man of means if not social position.

‘Marko,’ Lothar greeted the man in a cold, somewhat irritated fashion. When he’d heard the bell sound, he’d half expected his father’s ghost to come tromping up those steps, such was the morbid turn of his mind.

‘Baron von Diehl now, I believe,’ Marko addressed Lothar. He glanced about for a moment and, without awaiting an invitation, sank into a heavy chair opposite the table. His host scowled at the man’s temerity but kept his tongue. In their long association, he had been forced to a grudging acceptance of Marko’s discourteous habits.

‘Your sense of propriety leaves much to be desired,’ Lothar upbraided the man. ‘My father lies cold in his chambers and you choose tonight to visit.’ He made a pretence of examining the documents on the table, directing a dismissive wave at Marko. ‘Get out. Leave me to my mourning. Come again in a fortnight.’

Marko leaned forwards in his chair, an oily smile across his face. ‘Is that any way to speak to an old friend who has come to offer his sympathy?’

A caustic laugh was Lothar’s answer. Marko’s smile collapsed into a sullen frown.

‘Perhaps the word “friend” offends you?’ Marko asked. ‘There is another word I might use, but “accomplice” is such an ugly word that noble ears should be spared its utterance.’

Lothar set down the deed he had been feigning interest in and glared at his visitor. ‘You dare threaten me? Are you forgetting that I am now Baron von Diehl?’

The smile was back on Marko’s face. ‘Indeed I am not,’ he said. ‘It is because you are the baron that I have brought you something.’ Reaching into his coat, digging into the deep poacher pockets sewn into its lining, he withdrew a thick bundle wrapped in sheepskin.

Whatever annoyance Lothar felt was instantly supplanted by curiosity. Marko had been wrong to refer to himself as an accomplice. He was a facilitator, a provider of the magical treatises and implements needed for Lothar’s researches. The peasant had proven himself most capable in his illicit trade, braving the vengeance of both secular and religious law to secure the forbidden tomes Lothar required.

Tonight, however, Lothar could sense that the trader had brought him something special. Cynically, he wondered how long it had been in Marko’s possession, if the peasant hadn’t been biding his time, waiting until the title and wealth of Baron von Diehl passed into Lothar’s hands.

The new baron set dignity aside as he hurriedly unwrapped the package. Within he discovered a large book bound in some strange scaly hide. A golden skull was embossed upon the cover, and it was with a thrill of excitement that he recognised the hieroglyphics beneath it as belonging to the vanished civilisation of Mourkain.

‘You will appreciate it,’ Marko declared, ‘when I tell you that what you hold in your hands is the only known copy of De Arcanis Kadon .’

Lothar’s knees went weak, dropping him ungracefully back into his chair. There was a tremor on his lips, a shiver in his hands. Shocked by the artefact in his fingers, the baron’s heart pounded to the beat of both horror and exuberance.

‘You know the story, of course,’ Marko said, savouring the emotions warring for control of his patron’s mind. ‘Kadon was a shaman of the primitive tribes along the Blind River. Sometime before the birth of Sigmar, he built a great city in the Badlands, a place he named Mourkain.’ The peasant chuckled grimly. ‘In the Strigany tongue, it means “the Dead City”. Employing the black arts, he raised an army of the dead to make war in his name. With Mourkain at its centre, Kadon built the kingdom of Strygos. Those who submitted to his power became his slaves. Those who defied him were slaughtered… and became his slaves just the same.’

Marko paused, examining an old sword hanging on the wall, running one of his hands along the blade. ‘It is said that Kadon was the greatest sorcerer of his day, and that he used his magic to empower many strange and terrible relics. None, however, could equal the malignity of De Arcanis Kadon . Written upon skin flayed from the bodies of his children, scribed in the heart’s blood of his own wives, Kadon consigned onto these pages all of his arcane knowledge.’

Marko stared up at the portrait of Hjalmar von Diehl, watching as the flickering glow from the hearth cast strange shadows across the dead baron’s face. ‘There were nine copies of De Arcanis Kadon , patterned after the ancient Books of Nagash . Each copy was couched in its own cipher and entrusted to one of Kadon’s disciples. The disciples scattered when Strygos was overrun by a mighty orc invasion. Kadon himself perished when the city of Mourkain fell to the greenskins, but through his disciples and De Arcanis Kadon , his knowledge endured.’

Lothar ran his thumb along the book’s spine, feeling an icy sensation flow down his arm. ‘I understood that De Arcanis Kadon was lost when the Great Cathedral of Sigmar burned in Nuln,’ he said, his voice nothing more than an awed whisper.

‘One copy was reputed to be held by the Sigmarites in their vaults,’ Marko agreed, returning to the table and lowering himself into his chair. ‘Another was burned in Remas by the fanatics of Solkan. A warlock in the town of Mirkhof was reputed to be in possession of a copy when that community vanished from the face of the earth.’ Marko laughed. ‘The work of elves, some claim.

‘There was another copy somewhere in Bretonnia, but much like Mirkhof, the community harbouring it vanished in a night. Undoubtedly the work of the Great Enchanter. If so, then it will never leave the Grey Mountains.’

‘Where did this copy come from?’ Lothar asked.

‘It wasn’t easy to get,’ Marko assured him. ‘It is supposed to have been in the possession of a man titling himself “King of the Strigany” and was, perhaps, handed down from father to son since the destruction of Strygos. It is doubtful the man understood what he possessed, otherwise his caravan wouldn’t have been massacred when they tried to camp near an Ostland village. It seems there was talk that the Strigany were spreading the plague, so the men of the village rose up and massacred the entire caravan. Their fear of the plague didn’t keep them from looting the dead, however. Among the plunder, the villagers found De Arcanis Kadon . The miraculous thing is that they didn’t destroy it to steal its gold adornments.’ Marko laughed again, but it was an uneasy sort of laugh. ‘Maybe it was the book exerting its magic on their simple minds, protecting itself from their ignorance and fear.