C. Werner - Blighted Empire

The reptilian smile flashed over the Protector’s face. ‘Otherwise people might develop strange ideas about your loyalty to Emperor Boris.’

Ragged, emaciated, unkempt and unwashed, the denizens of Albrecht’s Close emerged from their hovels, drawn from behind locked doors by the commotion in the street. Many had taken refuge in their half-timber homes and earthen grubenhauser months ago, trying to hide from the plague running rampant through the city. As they stirred from their seclusion and hobbled out into the street, they shaded their eyes against the sting of sunlight and coughed at the forgotten sensation of open air.

The plague had wrought havoc in Albrecht’s Close, once the domain of prosperous merchants and their peasant tenants. Many of the buildings were derelict, the white cross of disease daubed upon their doors. Many others had been allowed to fall into horrendous disrepair, their inhabitants not daring to summon craftsmen to effect repairs lest they bring the plague into their homes. One arm of the close was a blackened ruin, the residue of a winter fire that had consumed a dozen homes before its wrath was spent.

It was towards this swathe of charred timbers and soot-stained rock that the ragged crowd was drawn. Gaunt with hunger, feverish with fear, finery reduced to the rags of poverty, they were a typical sampling of what pernicious disease and malignant taxation had done to the common folk of Altdorf. They were a people who felt abandoned by gods and Emperor, cast into the unforgiving darkness of Old Night itself.

They were a people desperate to seize upon any hope. And for their sins, hope had descended upon the inhabitants of Albrecht’s Close.

He marched down the street, his powerful build swathed in a cloak of black, a heavy hood framing his sharp, birdlike face. About his neck hung an ornament of shining gold, the icon of a clenched fist. In one hand he bore a heavy book bound in leopard skin and banded in steel. In the other hand, raised high that its light might shine into the shadows of footpath and alleyway, he held a blazing torch. In a stern, booming voice, he compelled the people of the close to stir.

‘Altdorfers!’ the black spectre shouted. ‘The judgement of the gods is upon you! Too long have you wallowed in the sins of wantonness and luxury. Too long have you forsaken the virtue of humility, forgotten your obligations to the divine court! The weight of your inequities has visited pestilence and famine on this city. The gods have turned their faces from you. They have become deaf to shallow prayers issuing from shallow hearts. You beg their grace, but you do so without faith. Without conviction!’

The orator stopped, turning to stare accusingly at the throng filing into the street. He shook the torch, sending embers dancing into the shadows. He brandished the book, letting its pages rustle. ‘You implore the gods for solace, ask them to spare your petty lives. Yet you do not spare a thought for the quality of your souls! When the gods remain silent, you lend yourselves to confusion and blasphemy. You seek succour from those who do not believe in the authority of the gods. You despair and would give yourselves over into the deceit of those who cavort with the Ruinous Powers!’

On uttering his last condemnation of the crowd, the speaker turned, shaking his torch at a miserable-looking woman bound in chains and being dragged through the street by a pair of shaven-headed acolytes in the brown robes of flagellants. ‘This creature sought to lead you down the path of damnation. Sought to trap you in her profane lies. To cure your flesh by defiling your soul!’

‘You have chained Mutti Angela,’ a horrified onlooker exclaimed. ‘She is a healer…’

‘She is a pawn of daemons!’ the black spectre roared, his booming voice drowning out the peasant’s protest. ‘She is a corruption polluting the virtue of this community, a poisonous viper spitting her venom into the hearts of all she touches.’ He waved the torch overhead, letting embers shower down onto his hood, drawing the attention of the crowd away from the man who had spoken for Mutti Angela.

‘I am called Auernheimer,’ he declared. ‘I serve the great god Solkan, the divine fist of retribution. I am a witch-taker.’ He looked back at the chained woman. ‘This creature, this abomination that professes to protect you against the plague, is a witch.’

The statement brought gasps of alarm from the crowd. Several voices rose in objection, incredulous cries against Auernheimer’s claims.

‘Your deception is so great that even now you cling to this creature’s lies,’ the witch-taker declared. His fiery gaze swept across the crowd. ‘How long has this obscenity practised her witchery among you? Has it stopped the plague? Has it saved any of you? No! There is only one way to salvation. Submit to the authority of the gods. Bow to the judgement of Great Solkan!’

Auernheimer paused, studying the crowd. Slowly, he lowered the holy book, hooking it to a ring on his belt. Reaching beneath his cloak, he withdrew a long iron needle. ‘Still you doubt, but I shall prove to you the veracity of my words!’ In a single vicious motion, he thrust the needle into his own cheek. Blood bubbled from the wound as he worried the needle back and forth. The peasants watched in morbid fascination as he pulled the needle free.

‘A man will bleed,’ Auernheimer declaimed, shaking the bloody needle. ‘Should I prick any one of you, you too would bleed. But a witch,’ he turned and strode towards the chained woman, ‘a witch has no blood in her veins, only the filth of Chaos!’

Before anyone knew what he was about, Auernheimer stabbed the needle into the woman’s arm. The captive cried out in fright and pain, but her scream was drowned out by the horrified shrieks of the crowd. Where the needle had drawn blood from the witch-taker, the substance bubbling from the woman’s wound was a stinking brown sludge.

‘Witch!’ a horrified peasant exclaimed. The cry was soon taken up by others. Soon the shout was taken up by the entire crowd.

Auernheimer withdrew the needle, wiping it clean on his cloak before returning it to his pocket. ‘Purge the corruption of the witch!’ he roared. ‘Cleanse its blight from your community! Purify this fleshy vestment of evil!’ He waved his torch overhead once more, sending embers dancing through the street.

‘Cast out the daughters of Chaos by burning them!’

The witch-taker’s invective aroused the terrified mob. Peasants rushed upon the nearest of the derelict structures, ripping out shutters and pulling down doors. Furniture was smashed and broken, shingles wrenched from the edges of overhangs. Soon, a great mound of wood was growing amid the burned-out ruins. When it had risen high enough, the accused witch was thrust forwards, sent crashing into the pile.

Auernheimer waved his torch overhead one last time before sending the brand flying from his hand to sail into the piled wood. The debris quickly caught flame. Angela shrieked, scrambling to escape the fire. As she tried to crawl away from the pile, peasants thrust her back with pitchforks and spades. The woman’s efforts became more frantic as the fire kissed her flesh, but the more horrendous her injuries, the more determined the peasants were to keep her from escaping the conflagration.

When Angela’s strength failed and she at last collapsed amid the flames, Auernheimer unhooked the tome from his belt and led the peasants in a solemn psalm praising the grim beneficence of Solkan, Father of Vengeance.

For their sins, the people of Albrecht’s Close rallied to a new and terrible redeemer.

Middenheim,

Sommerzeit, 1118

Ar-Ulric cast an appraising eye over Brother Richter as the priest seated himself at the right hand of Prince Mandred. The High Priest of Ulric teased his snowy moustache with a wrinkled hand as he walked around the Fauschlagstein, the great stone council table carved from a single block of mountain granite, and took his seat near that of Graf Gunthar. Even when he was seated, the old cleric couldn’t keep his eyes from straying towards the Sigmarite or an amused expression from tugging at his face.