C. Werner: Dead Winter

After scouring an entire floor without a trace of another living soul, it was impressed upon Erich the exact magnitude of their labour. He could have a hundred men and several hours and still not make a proper job of it. As it stood, he hoped that Count van Sauckelhof’s prayers to Ranald weren’t being ignored.

While Erich was taking a quick count of his small force, determining that two Sylvanians had fallen in the skirmish and besides Kretzulescu there were three wounded, a loud voice began shouting triumphantly from one of the chambers leading off the gallery. Erich recognised the bellow as belonging to Baron Thornig, but what had caused his excitement the knight was at a loss to explain. Fearing the worst, he motioned the two Reiksknecht in their little group to follow him and set off at a run to find the Middenlander.

The room the shouts came from looked like an armoury, so filled was it with weapons and armour. A half-dozen corpses wearing the gold of the Palace Guard were sprawled around the doorway, showing every sign of having made a vicious effort at defence. Beyond the doorway virtually every sort of armament was on display, lying placidly upon velvet-lined tables and stands. Erich saw the thin rapiers of Estalia and the brutish axes of Kislev, the heavy lances of Bretonnia and a thorny sword-like bludgeon of inhuman origin. There seemed no pattern to the assortment of weaponry, a dwarf axe resting beside a blade of elven make, a crude orc axe beside a curved scimitar from Araby.

Then Erich noticed a gruesome horned helm of blackened iron hanging upon a silver hook, the splinters of a shadow box dangling all around it. Erich could understand why the trophy had been hidden, and why whoever had smashed the shadow box had quickly retreated. There was no mistaking that helm, not for anyone who had examined an illuminated copy of the Deus Sigmar . The knight felt a sense of awe as he stared at this relic from the founding of the Empire — the helm of Morkar the Despoiler.

At once the smallness and unimportance of his own life pressed down upon the knight’s spirit. Who was he, captain of an outlawed order of knights, to challenge the authority and legacy of the emperors? Who was he to question a power that dated back to Sigmar himself?

Despair closed its claws about his heart as he stared up at the hoary battle trophy. Erich found his grip on his sword weakening, his sense of purpose faltering. Giving up now was the only thing that made sense any more. There was no hope of victory, no triumph waiting at the end of the ordeal. Only death and humiliation and shame.

Baron Thornig’s bellow snapped Erich from the pernicious influence of the helm. The knight glared at the lifeless iron mask, sensing its malignant mockery. Now that he was aware of its influence, it seemed weaker, unable to manipulate his fear, but Erich wanted to take no chances. Cautiously, he stepped away from the relic of the ancient Chaos warlord and made his way across the room to where Thornig continued to howl and shout.

‘You’ll bring the whole Palace down on us!’ Erich snarled at the Middenlander.

Baron Thornig just smiled and pointed his fist at the table beside him. The stand was richly carved from the lip of its recessed surface to each of the clawed dragon-feet at the ends of its legs. A casing of transparent crystal covered the display, and the surface beneath the trophy ensconced below looked to be nothing less than dragonskin.

But Erich paid scant attention to these trappings of opulence. His eyes were instantly locked upon the relic itself. Like the helm of Morkar, there was no mistaking what it was. Unlike that grim trophy, however, the relic’s draw was unmistakable. Looking upon it, Erich could feel vigour surge through his veins.

‘Ghal Maraz,’ Erich whispered.

Baron Thornig laughed. ‘I thought that would be worth seeing. But it’s too damn fine to leave with a leech like Goldgather.’ So saying, the Middenlander raised his own warhammer, a weapon that seemed small and crude beside the magnificent hammer which had once filled the hands of Sigmar himself.

Erich gasped in horror, lunging to restrain Baron Thornig. ‘You don’t mean to destroy it!’ he shouted.

Baron Thornig shook him off and raised his hammer once more. ‘Of course not!’ he shouted, bringing the warhammer smashing down and shattering the crystal casing.

‘I mean to steal it!’

Altdorf

Vorhexen, 1111

Erich wiped the blood from his blade, feeling a twinge of regret as the young soldier lay bleeding at his feet. The man had fought bravely and fiercely, and despite his years he had given the knight many close moments. Experience had prevailed, however, and in the end all it had taken was one ill-timed slash to allow Erich to slip past his adversary’s guard and run him through.

There were many such brave fighters lying strewn throughout the arcade overlooking the grand ballroom. Many of them wore the gold of the Palace Guard, but mixed among them were members of Baron Thornig’s retinue, several of Duke Konrad’s men and even a few of Erich’s fellow Reiksknecht. But for the timely intervention of Erich and his force, Prince Sigdan might have been repulsed and overwhelmed by Boris’s faithful defenders.

Now those defenders had been pushed back into the Harmony Salon, overlooking the ballroom. Bracing the doors with tables and chairs, the Palace Guard were making a staunch defence until Aldo Broadfellow made a suggestion. The halfling had no appetite for battle, and it took a mind such as his to conceive a better way to force entry into the salon. Instead of smashing their way into the room, the rebels piled tapestries, furnishings, paintings and anything else that looked like it might burn.

At Prince Sigdan’s order, the pile of battered finery and art was doused in lamp oil and set alight. Coils of thick black smoke boiled through the arcade, spilling out into the halls and almost choking the invaders until Duke Konrad ordered the doors to the connecting chambers thrown open and the windows smashed to vent the fumes. Count van Sauckelhof took vindictive delight in ordering the obliteration of the Emperor’s prized Kaiseraugen , hurling an iron sconce into the crystal panes as the first blow against the decadent opulence that had characterised Boris’s reign.

Before the next bell tolled from the spires of the Great Cathedral, the barricaded doorway had been reduced to smouldering rubble. The rebels shouldered their way past the flaming wreckage, pressing on into the mirror-walled room beyond. Every furnishing had been pushed up against the door, leaving only the massive hydraulis still standing. Too heavy to move, the immense water organ formed the Emperor’s last refuge. Sheltering behind its bulk, Boris Goldgather glared at his enemies as they stormed into the room.

‘Boris Hohenbach!’ Prince Sigdan shouted as he marched through the crumbling doorway, with boots scraping against the charred planks of the wood-covered floor. ‘For crimes against the Empire and its people, you are called upon to abdicate your throne and relinquish the powers you have abused and of which you are unworthy!’

The Emperor’s eyes narrowed with hate as he heard Prince Sigdan’s demand. He cast his gaze across the rebels filing into the salon, then looked over at his own depleted forces. Coughing, half-smothered by the smoke, his Palace Guard still formed ranks around him, raising their shields and drawing their swords. The black-armoured figure of Baron Peter von Kirchof stepped out from the ranks of the defenders. The Emperor smirked as he saw the faces of his enemies go pale. In all the Empire, no man was better with a sword than von Kirchof, the Emperor’s Champion.