C. Werner: Dead Winter

The same could not be said for Baron Thornig of Middenheim. Even in the Imperial court, the fellow affected the barbarous appearance of a half-civilised Teutogen, his shoulders draped with the snarling pelt of a white wolf, his hair and beard long and worn in the wildest state. The affectation of the backwoods savage was one designed to deliberately provoke the rest of the court, an effort to remind the rest of the Empire that the City of the White Wolf was full to brimming with wild warriors chomping at the bit to rush into battle once more.

It might do to remind Middenheim of her less than sterling record upon the battlefield in the most recent violence to disrupt the Empire. For all their vaunted prowess, for all their supposed woodcraft, the soldiers of Middenheim and Middenland had proven incapable of crushing the latest uprising of beastmen in the Drakwald. Perhaps old Ulric, god of wolves and war, had been caught napping.

A scowl flickered across the Emperor’s lean features. His eyes turned towards the foot of the long table where sat a bald-headed man dressed in a black robe trimmed in crimson, a golden hammer embroidered upon the breast. Arch-Lector Wolfgang Hartwich, representing Grand Theogonist Thorgrad and the Temple of Sigmar. Since the Sigmarites had relocated the headquarters of their faith to Altdorf after the fire that had destroyed the Great Cathedral at Nuln and claimed the life of the old Grand Theogonist, their presence in the capital had become increasingly prominent… and intrusive. The arch-lector was an insufferable annoyance, fairly exuding disapproval with his every glance and gesture. If Ulric could be caught asleep, it seemed Sigmar was infuriatingly vigilant, his clergy only too ready to insinuate themselves into matters which were none of their concern.

Emperor Boris tapped the gilded arms of his throne, pondering the question of Sigmar and his temple. He knew the Sigmarite faith was stronger in the south than in his native Drakwald, fairly eclipsing the worship of other gods when it came to Altdorf and the Reikland. The Grand Theogonist was the most powerful priest in the Empire, the pretensions of Ar-Ulric notwithstanding. Worse, the Temple of Sigmar had a structure and organisation beyond any other faith. They could use that organisation to disrupt production and trade as effectively as any goblin invasion or beastman uprising. Even an emperor had to treat them with deference and care, lest he offend the Temple and the thousands of zealots who placed devotion to Sigmar above their duty to their sovereign.

‘…but it remains to be determined how serious the menace is.’

Emperor Boris shifted in his throne, focusing on the gaunt, cadaverous figure of Palatine Mihail Kretzulescu. The envoy from the court of Count Malbork von Drak, Voivode of Sylvania, had risen from his seat in order to address the assembled dignitaries. Count Malbork was, ostensibly, the vassal of Grand Count von Boeselager of Stirland. Von Drak had purchased his title for a hefty contribution to the Imperial treasury and made little secret of his ambitions to make Sylvania an independent province in its own right. With tacit encouragement from Altdorf, von Drak had become too powerful for the grand count to simply remove. Stirland had to endure the voivode’s talk of an independent Sylvania while trying to counter von Drak’s bribes in order to ensure the Emperor didn’t grant the territory its freedom.

The palatine’s presence among the council was a vivid reminder to Baron von Klauswitz that Stirland had much to lose should its beneficence to the Imperial Treasury falter. A sycophant renowned for his oratory, Kretzulescu’s resonant voice would wax elegant for hours unless stifled by higher authority.

‘Sylvania will pay its portion,’ Emperor Boris said, his deep, caustic tones smothering Kretzulescu’s words. ‘Every province in the land has a responsibility to protect her neighbours. Sylvania is no different. Von Drak will have to pay his share.’

Kretzulescu turned and bowed before the Imperial throne. ‘But your Imperial Majesty, you have issued a diktat disbanding the Army of the Drakwald. Surely there is no further…’

‘The beastmen continue to raid and maraud throughout the province,’ snarled Duke Konrad Aldrech. The young nobleman’s face trembled with emotion, his eyes glistening with the simmering fires of hate. ‘It will take many soldiers to run the creatures to ground and wipe out their blot forever!’

‘More soldiers than is practical, I fear,’ stated Count van Sauckelhof. ‘You cannot expect the rest of the Empire to beggar itself trying to rebuild a backwoods frontier no sane man would try to settle in the first place! I should think removing the Norscans from Westerland would be of greater importance to the Empire!’ Van Sauckelhof’s face went pale even as the outburst left his lips. Timidly, he turned towards the enthroned Emperor Boris, belatedly remembering that His Imperial Majesty was originally from the Drakwald and that Duke Konrad was also of the Hohenbachs.

Fortunately for the Westerlander, the Emperor was of too practical a mindset to allow loyalty to his family and homeland to interrupt the prosperity of the Empire. ‘We all appreciate the suffering of Drakwald. The loss of Count Vilner is a pain that has touched us deeply. But this is not a time when we can allow emotion to rule above sense. We must look after the Empire as a whole, not allow the plight of any single province to weaken the others.’

Duke Konrad kept his face impassive, but his fist tightened about the stem of the goblet he held. ‘Your Imperial Majesty, the Drakwald is in ruins. The foul beastmen have burned and pillaged a third of the province…’

‘Then that leaves them damn little to destroy,’ laughed the porcine Count Artur of Nuln. He wiped his greasy fingers on the embroidered tablecloth and fixed his piggish eyes on the fuming duke. ‘Of course, if you’d like to arrange a loan, I’m sure we can come to terms.’

Before Duke Konrad could hurl his goblet into the chuckling Artur’s face, the man seated to his right rose from his chair. He was a short, stocky man, somehow maintaining a wiry build, his jaw firm, his blue eyes possessed of a piercing clarity. His vestments were subdued beside the flamboyance of the other noblemen, consisting of a tan-hued tunic and dark breeches. About his neck, however, he wore the heavy gold pectoral of and Reiksmarshal.

Baron Everhardt Johannes Boeckenfoerde, the Reikland’s most famous soldier and commander of the Empire’s armies. His promotion to Reiksmarshal had been something of a scandal — never before had so young a soldier been elevated to such a position of authority. Yet even the worst critics of Emperor Boris admitted that the controversial decision had been one of the few moments of genius displayed by His Imperial Majesty. Boeckenfoerde had led the Empire’s armies to victory against orc invasions in Averland and Solland, crushed a horde of goblins in Talabecland and defended the shores of Nordland against the longships of High King Ormgaard of Norsca. In the latest war, he had taken personal command of the campaign against the warherds of Khaagor Deathhoof. It had been the Reiksmarshal who conceived the elaborate trap which had lured Khaagor from the protection of the forest and into the pastureland around the ruined village of Kriegfels. He had ridden with the knights who charged the warherd and avenged Count Vilner by taking Khaagor’s head.

There was no man in the great hall who commanded more respect than the Reiksmarshal. When he laid a restraining hand upon Duke Konrad’s shoulder, the young nobleman’s face flushed with shame at his lack of control.

The Reiksmarshal turned his gaze towards the throne, locking eyes with his Emperor before speaking. The soldier’s jaw tightened. There was no need for Emperor Boris to remind him of what was expected of him. One look into the cold gaze of the seated sovereign made it clear.