C. Werner - Blighted Empire

The Emperor raised his hand, displaying a cut of venison. He waved it to and fro before the hungry eyes of the peasants. Back and forth he teased them until one of the wretches understood what was expected. Dropping to all fours, the man barked and panted and whined. Laughing, Boris dropped the venison to the ground near the peasant. ‘No hands,’ he warned when the man started to stand. ‘Be a good dog.’

The peasant froze, a despondent sob rising from him. Then, obediently, he crawled to the meat and retrieved it from the dirt with his teeth. Emperor Boris laughed and applauded. He turned to his guests. ‘Now you see how the game should be played. If they expect to be fed like dogs, then they should act like dogs.’

The Emperor’s injunction had the most jaded of his court dashing to the servants and retrieving handfuls of food to throw at the peasants after teasing a humiliating performance out of them. A few of the courtiers hesitated, but were too concerned about drawing Boris’s disfavour to restrain themselves. Some made a better show of enjoying the cruel performance than others, but they threw food down to the ‘dogs’ just the same.

Doktor Moschner mounted the only kind of protest. ‘Your Imperial Majesty, I think it is unwise to bring these people here,’ he confided to the monarch. ‘These are low-born peasants. They may be carrying the plague.’

The cherubic smile dropped from the Emperor’s face, the humour fading into glowering severity. ‘There is no plague in Carroburg,’ Boris declared. ‘That is why We removed Our court here, why We left that peasant rascal Kreyssig in charge of Altdorf.’

The physician flinched at the ire in his master’s voice. ‘Forgive me… I only thought…’

Emperor Boris was already moving away, turning his attention to Princess Erna. Like the doktor, she hadn’t taken part in his cruel jest. He stopped a few paces from the woman, a cold smile back on his face.

‘Be careful, my dear,’ the Emperor advised, staring at her expression of undisguised disapproval. ‘If you become too much a boor, then We might decide you don’t like Our company.’

The Emperor nodded his head towards the battlements where his sycophants laughed and joked as they tossed scraps to the begging peasants. ‘If We tire of you, We might have to throw you to the dogs.’

Altdorf

Sommerzeit, 1114

The uproar within the council chamber was almost deafening. From his position at the head of the table, Adolf Kreyssig was afforded a good look at the bedlam. For all their outrage, he knew the fury of the councillors was all bluster. The presence of thirty armed Kaiserjaeger would make the nobles remember their place.

Lord Ratimir rose from his seat, smashing his lead drinking goblet on the table, trying to force some measure of order. ‘The Protector has spoken!’ he shouted, punctuating each word with a blow against the table. ‘He has made an Imperial diktat! His word is law!’

Count Holgwer von Haag shook his fist at Ratimir, then spun around to gesticulate at Kreyssig himself. ‘The Emperor will hear of this, you jumped up peasant scum! You have no right to-’

Kreyssig picked up the crystal ewer of wine resting before him and with a violent heave dashed it against the top of the table. Shards of glass exploded among the councillors, causing even the grizzled Duke Vidor to flinch back in alarm. A tense silence descended on the council chamber.

‘I have every right,’ Kreyssig growled at von Haag. He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, indicating the empty Imperial throne standing upon its marble dais. ‘You were there, all of you, when His Imperial Majesty appointed me Protector of the Empire. Have you asked yourself why he chose me, not a count or a baron or a duke?’ He let the question linger, watching little flickers of anxiety play across the faces of his audience. It didn’t take an enchanter to know that these blue-bloods had been asking themselves that question every hour of every day since the ceremony at the Great Cathedral of Sigmar.

Kreyssig extended his hand, directing an accusing finger at the men seated around the table. ‘His Imperial Majesty chose me because he feels he cannot trust you nobles. The Prince of Altdorf was the ringleader of the conspiracy to depose him. The noble representatives of Stirland and Westerland and Drakwald were party to that treachery. The Graf of Middenheim bestowed his endorsement and support. The noble-born Reiksmarshal turned three-quarters of the Imperial army to treason and brigandry!’ Kreyssig’s lip curled back in a vicious sneer. ‘No, I think the Emperor will sanction my decision to reconstitute this council with men of my choosing.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘You are welcome to protest, but know that I will take any such move as seditious and the instigators of such action will be investigated. Do you feel your loyalty is equal to such scrutiny?’

‘Mine is,’ growled Duke Vidor. He wore the black and gold of the Imperial army’s highest echelon, a green griffon rampant embroidered across the breast and a jewelled pectoral hanging from his neck. Except for the Imperial signet, Vidor already bore the paraphernalia of Reiksmarshal. Kreyssig knew how keenly the nobleman desired to wear the signet on his finger.

Kreyssig also knew that there was no man he could less afford to place in that position. Duke Vidor was of the old families, the old blood, boasting a pedigree that went clear back to the age of Sigmar. He was an embodiment of the aristocratic mentality, the arrogance of class and breeding that regarded those of commoner origins as less than animals. No amount of accomplishment or ability could ever overcome the failing of parentage in the eyes of men like Vidor.

There was no warmth in the smile Kreyssig directed at the Duke. ‘Your loyalty is beyond question?’ he asked, his words dripping with mockery.

‘I pursued that traitor Boeckenfoerde across four provinces and routed his rabble into the Ungol wastes!’ Vidor roared.

Like a spider drawing in its web, Kreyssig seized his prey. ‘Your orders were to bring the traitor’s head back and set it at the foot of Our Glorious Emperor’s throne!’ Savagely, Kreyssig threw back his chair and sent it crashing to the floor. A few steps brought him to the base of the marble dais. His hand pointing at the three steps beneath the Imperial seat, he turned and glared at Vidor. ‘Where is Boeckenfoerde’s head?’

Duke Vidor glared back at Kreyssig. ‘Oh no… You’ll not bait me! I did all that was reasonable, chased the cur beyond our borders…’

‘Beyond the reach of Imperial justice,’ Kreyssig snarled back. ‘Some affectation of noblesse oblige, taking it upon yourself to give Boeckenfoerde the choice of exile over execution?’

Vidor was on his feet now, hands clenched at his sides. ‘You peasant dog! You dare accuse me!’

‘I have been appointed Protector of the Empire,’ Kreyssig replied, a menacing calm in his voice. ‘It is my duty to accuse those whose service to the Emperor has been… questionable.’ He stalked back to the table, waiting while two of his Kaiserjaeger righted the upset chair. Seating himself again, Kreyssig glanced around the table, then fixed his gaze on Vidor. ‘Your services will not be required,’ he told the nobleman. ‘I will be appointing Astrid Soehnlein as new Reiksmarshal. If you do not wish to take orders from a peasant, I suggest you retire to your estates. While you still have them.’

Duke Vidor glowered at Kreyssig, his hands closing into fists, his teeth grinding as he clenched his jaw. Without a word, he tore the pectoral from his neck and dropped it on the table.

Kreyssig watched the fuming noble depart. As the door closed behind Vidor, he turned his cold gaze back upon the other councillors. ‘I trust the rest of you who are being relieved of your duties will accept my decision with the grace befitting your station.’