C. Werner - Blighted Empire

Altdorf

Pflugzeit, 1114

Slivers of agony raced through his arm, searing through his very bones. There was a sensation of scalding cold, the gnawing bite of hoarfrost sinking into his skin. Before his eyes, the hairs on the back of his hand turned brittle and crumbled into little motes of ice. He clenched his teeth against the torment, refusing to scream. This time I will not scream , he vowed to himself. It was a promise he had made many times. A promise he had always failed to keep.

As the pain became too great, Adolf Kreyssig spat the wooden block from his mouth and gave voice to a torturous cry. He screamed until he thought his lungs must burst and his throat would be stripped raw. He screamed and screamed, but there was no respite. He knew there would be none. There would be no relief until the ordeal had accomplished what it needed to accomplish.

Just as he felt consciousness slipping away, as black oblivion began to wrap its welcoming folds about his brain, Kreyssig felt the pain begin to abate. Gradually, the chill evaporated from his bones, the frost melted on his skin as blood coursed back into his arm. He watched as a cold mist rose from his warming flesh. Layers of frozen skin sloughed away as he flexed his muscles.

Through the lingering agony, Kreyssig smiled. He could feel his muscles respond, see the fingers of his hand clench and open. True, there was a certain lethargy about the motion, but it was less pronounced than before. Improvement! Reward for the torture he had been submitting himself to for over two years.

Two years! It had been two years since he’d pursued the traitors Baron Thornig and Captain Erich von Kranzbeuhler into the sewers trying to recover the relic, the Holy Hammer of Sigmar, which they had stolen from the Imperial Palace. In the very moment of his seeming triumph, tragedy had struck him down. Cornered, the two rebels were at the mercy of Kreyssig’s Kaiserjaeger when events had spiralled out of control. The disgusting, verminous mutants Kreyssig had been exploiting in secret as spies had also been hunting the rebels and rushed into the subterranean gallery. Before Kreyssig could stop them, his startled men attacked the monstrous creatures. The resultant fight had destabilised the ancient masonry, bringing the building above crashing down on all their heads.

Kreyssig had been fortunate to survive. None of the others did. Crushed beneath tons of brick and stone, he’d been more than half dead when some of his men discovered him lying in a cellar of the Courts of Justice. Some of the mutants must have pulled him from the rubble and taken him to where he would be found and given help. Even with the best attention, however, he had hovered at the Gates of Morr for several months. The attentions of priests, herbalists and even the Emperor’s personal physician had preserved his life, but his body had been left a broken shell. It had required stronger measures to make him whole.

Slowly, the Commander of the Kaiserjaeger, the man who was feared throughout the Reikland as ‘the Hound of Boris’, raised himself from the cold stone slab he rested upon. Dried weeds and the moist foulness of animal entrails fell to the floor as he moved. With a trembling hand, he started to wipe away the ghastly symbols that had been inked upon his naked flesh.

‘Your strength returns, commander,’ a soft voice purred. There was amusement and superiority in that voice, but also an alluring suggestiveness that sent a shiver rushing through Kreyssig’s body.

It would have taken more willpower than even he possessed to keep from looking at the possessor of that voice. Kreyssig felt the shiver rise as he stared at his benefactor. The little chapel built into the side of the Lindenhaus was a shadowy, vault-like hall, a place of nigh perpetual cold and gloom. Even the head of the Emperor’s secret police wasn’t entirely sure what might be hiding in the murky chapel. There were some secrets even he was shy of uncovering. For now, it was enough that the darkness disgorged the one person in all Altdorf who had the ability to heal his ravaged body.

She stalked from the shadows, her slim body draped in crimson folds, smooth milky skin bared by the scandalous cut of her raiment. Flowing tresses of fiery hair fell about her shoulders, more vibrant in the darkness than her red gown. A beautiful face, so fair it might have been carved from alabaster, smiled at him. There was a coy, teasing quality in that smile. The grin of a cat toying with its prey.

‘It does not hurt so much to move the arm,’ Kreyssig told her. He flexed the muscles again, managing not to wince as another tingle of pain rushed through him. There had been times when any betrayal of pain on his part had been cause to undergo a second regimen straight away. He had learned to hide his pain after a few such extended treatments.

‘That is good,’ the flame-headed woman said. She approached the stone table, her eyes straying to give an almost mocking look at the cobweb-shrouded statue of Verena standing beside the wall. ‘In time, you will be as strong as ever.’

‘How soon?’ Kreyssig asked, a quiver of uneasiness in his tone. He was both excited and revolted when the woman’s slender finger stroked his injured arm. Her beauty was enough to set his heart pounding whenever she was near. At the same time, he felt the very core of his being sicken at her approach. No man encouraged the attentions of a witch lightly.

Even when that witch bore the title of Baroness von den Linden.

The witch stopped pacing around the table. She fixed her intense gaze upon Kreyssig. ‘Your hurts are many,’ she said. ‘Even I cannot say how long it may take to heal them. You are lucky to be alive.’

Kreyssig turned his head as he heard something creeping among the dead weeds. Glancing down, he was revolted to see one of the witch’s cats chewing at a piece of intestine he’d knocked from the table. He’d given up trying to count the filthy creatures — every time he visited the baroness there seemed to be at least one cat he hadn’t seen before. This one, a great bloated beast, he was reasonably certain she’d called Grimalkin.

‘Man makes his own luck,’ Kreyssig retorted. He used his irritation to find the strength to pull away from the witch’s touch. The effort seemed to amuse the baroness. Laughing, she reached down and drew the great fat cat into her arms, cradling it against her breast.

‘An interesting perspective,’ Baroness von den Linden mused, scratching the brute’s head until a loud purr rumbled from its furry body. ‘Would you say that my decision to render aid to you was also of your own creation?’

It was Kreyssig’s turn to laugh. ‘If you didn’t think I was useful, you would have let me rot,’ he stated. ‘If I wasn’t the Emperor’s strong right hand, I think you would have let me wither and die.’ He flexed his own right hand, feeling the dull ache of old wounds. ‘I do not blame you, of course. Your family has a history of acquiring those who are useful. Your mother, as far as my investigators can determine, was a simple Nordland peasant who seduced your father when he was hunting in the Middle Mountains. Curious how he died so soon after their wedding.’

‘Perhaps he was no longer useful,’ the baroness suggested. ‘Perhaps his ambitions were too short-sighted.’

‘And what are your ambitions, Kirstina?’ Kreyssig wondered. ‘How far are you trying to go?’

The witch shook her fiery tresses as she laughed. ‘As far as I can go! As far as my magic will take me!’

‘Your magic?’ Kreyssig asked, strangely stung by the thought.

The baroness laughed again. ‘My magic brought you to me,’ she said. ‘It has protected both of us from the plague that runs amok through the city.’