C. Werner - Blighted Empire

Mandred crumpled atop the monster, sprawling across Silke before the Deathmaster could twist away. Every speck of his being cried out in pain, the venom tipping the edges of the stars adding to the poison already in his veins. Mandred was deaf to the misery of his flesh, hearkening only to the misery in his soul. Fiercely, he forced his hands to close about Silke’s throat, willed his numb fingers to tighten, to crush the life from the inhuman murderer.

Deathmaster Silke flailed beneath Mandred’s strangling hands. Twisting and rolling, the skaven threw his attacker to the ground, yet still the hands would not release their terrible grip. The ratman’s claws raked the prince’s body, his fangs closed upon his shoulder, yet still Mandred wouldn’t relent. All the strength in his battered frame was focused into the fingers clenched about Silke’s throat.

Men were rushing to help the prince now, shouting and roaring at the skaven pinned beneath him. Kurgaz kicked his boot into the side of Silke’s head, trying to force the skaven to loosen his fangs. Desperate, the Deathmaster twisted from his tormentors, rolling himself and the prince across the floor. Their bodies glanced from the altar, bounced across the patch of bare earth beyond it.

A gasp of horror rose from every man, woman and child gathered in the temple as the two struggling combatants rolled into the blazing fire of the Sacred Flame.

For an instant, the flame burned brighter, blinding the panicked observers. Then they could make out the shadowy shapes of Mandred and Silke lying within the pillar of fire. The prince’s hands were yet wrapped about the ratman’s throat, even in the midst of the Sacred Flame.

As the stunned assembly watched, Silke’s body began to disintegrate, charred into ash by the spectral energies of the fire. Soon there was nothing left of the Deathmaster.

Silence dominated the temple as the remaining combatant emerged from the midst of the Sacred Flame. Where the fire had obliterated Silke entirely, it hadn’t so much as scorched the tattered cloak hanging from the prince’s shoulders. When he stepped from the flame, Mandred’s step wasn’t the limp of a cripple, but the steady march of a conqueror. There was no blood on his face, no wounds marring his body. An almost ethereal glow burned behind his skin, slowly fading as he approached the stone altar.

It was Brother Richter who was the first to find his voice, the first to cry out in recognition of the miracle they had all witnessed. ‘Hail the Wolf of Sigmar!’ the priest shouted, his words booming like thunder within the crowded temple. The cry was taken up by the multitude, shouted with the passion of a delivered people towards their saviour.

Only Mirella was silent. She alone looked beyond the miracle, looked beyond the triumphant saviour. She looked at the man himself, the man who didn’t hear the cheering voices, the man who didn’t look at the jubilant throng.

Mandred stared down at his father’s corpse sprawled before the altar. As he gazed into Graf Gunthar’s cold eyes, he felt a bitterness boil up inside of him. Why had the gods refused his prayer? Why him and not his father?

The answer seemed to shine in his father’s dead gaze, in the beauteous peace that had settled upon his face.

The son’s prayer had been rejected.

The father’s had not.

Mandred looked up as he found Beck approaching him. The knight bowed and offered him Legbiter once more. Solemnly, the prince took up his sword, the sword which was now his right to bear as Graf of Middenheim. Holding the Runefang aloft, he faced the cheering crowd and this time he heard their adoration.

‘Hail the Wolf of Sigmar!’

Altdorf

Jahrdrung, 1116

Months after news of Boris Goldgather’s death reached the Imperial capital, a festive quality lingered in the streets. The gigantic statue of the dead Emperor, a dwarf-crafted colossus that dominated the Konigplatz and which had been funded by a special bread tax, had been pulled down and demolished by the citizenry, the rubble carted off and dumped into the Reik. For weeks, jubilant processions had marched through the streets of Altdorf burning dung effigies of Boris. Even now, ribald and scathing ballads about the last of the Hohenbachs were favourites in the city’s taverns.

Adolf Kreyssig, Protector of the Empire, had deemed it politic to leave the peasants to their celebrations. His position was a precarious one. As a man of humble birth, he had no birthright to the power now at his command. It was only through the indulgence of the late Emperor that he enjoyed his position as steward of the Imperial throne. At the moment, the good people of Altdorf were happy to overlook that fact. Kreyssig had led them in the defence of their homes, had saved the city from conquest by the abominable Underfolk. To the commoners, he was a saviour.

Better than any noble, Kreyssig knew how fickle the mood of peasants could be. Today’s hero became tomorrow’s tyrant. Without the support of the Emperor there was no legitimacy behind his rule, only the clamour of the mob kept the Reikland nobility from casting him from the palace. He knew that the nobles would do their utmost to sow discontent among their peasants. Once the populace turned on him, it would all be over.

Kreyssig stalked through the cold halls of the Imperial Palace. Many of the paintings and tapestries had been stripped away, sold off to rebuild the depleted Imperial coffers. Diamond goblets, emerald chairs, an entire armoire made of polished amber, thirty-seven matching sapphire brooches, a cloak of gold leaf over leopard skin, a tub fashioned from pearl — the list of Boris’s extravagances was as extensive as any dragon’s hoard. Kreyssig knew he hadn’t been able to sell the Emperor’s luxuries for even a quarter of their worth, but at the moment bread and beer were far more essential than gold and silver.

‘You needn’t fret over the mood of the people,’ Baroness von den Linden scolded her paramour as she joined him along one of the deserted galleries. The witch had adopted a lavish gown of imperial purple, a colour reserved only for an empress or an emperor’s consort. Apart from the scandalous impropriety, Kreyssig was worried about the subtle implication, the implied threat to the nobles. If the baroness wore purple, then maybe the nobles would think he was sizing himself for a crown. At the moment, he didn’t need the Vons thinking about such things.

‘Let them think what they like,’ the witch laughed, resting her hand in the crook of Kreyssig’s arm. ‘The peasants are behind you and they have greater numbers than all the nobles. The blinders are off now and men like Duke Vidor will find it difficult to put them back on again. The commoners have been awakened.’

Kreyssig frowned at his companion. ‘Easy for you to say. They adore you as some divine instrument of Sigmar Himself. Even the Grand Theogonist is afraid of you.’ He turned away from the mural he had been inspecting, a fifth-century piece depicting the Battle of Black Fire Pass. Once it might have been a priceless heirloom, but Emperor Boris had contracted vandals to alter the work so that Sigmar’s face bore a closer resemblance to his own. Many of the paintings in the palace had suffered such destruction.

‘Stefan isn’t fooled,’ Kreyssig continued as he walked with the baroness. ‘He knows your powers owe nothing to his god. He knows there is witchcraft behind you.’

The baroness smiled. ‘He may know much, but what can he prove? Can he make the people believe?’ She laughed, a bitter spiteful note. ‘Would he dare? If he exposes me, if he denounces me, what will that mean for his precious Temple? How will the peasants react if they know their homes were saved not by Holy Sigmar but by a heretical witch?’