C. Werner: Dead Winter

Before the treacherous Blight could pull away, he felt claws digging into his back, prisoning him against the plague priest’s fat frame. Puskab’s supposedly useless and broken arm held him in a merciless grip. The Grey Lord struggled to bring his sword to bear, but was unable to shift past the warding length of the priest’s staff.

‘Now see-learn power-might of Horned One,’ Puskab hissed, leaning towards Blight, savouring the stark terror filling his eyes. Drawing upon the sickly magic of his god, the plague priest opened his decayed jaws, letting a froth of bile and blood surge from his diseased guts.

Blight’s fur smoked, his flesh sizzled as the stream of corruption washed over his face. The notched sword clattered to the floor, the clawed fingers dropped away from Puskab’s throat. Howling in agony, the stricken Wormlord reeled away from the plague priest. Puskab lunged at his staggering enemy, leaping into the air and bringing his gnarled staff cracking down upon the crown of Blight’s skull in a double-pawed effort that had every ounce of his massive weight behind it.

The Wormlord’s head shattered like an egg, blood and brains splattering across the platform. Blight’s body swayed drunkenly on its feet for a moment, then toppled against one of the columns. Puskab hobbled over to it, prying the lifeless claws from the aged stone. Vindictively, he pushed it over the side with the butt of his staff.

When the council saw Blight’s broken body lying at the foot of the Shattered Tower, they would know that Puskab Foulfur was triumphant. They would know that the Wormlord was no more, his place as Lord of Decay forfeit to the Poxmaster of Clan Pestilens.

Puskab leaned against his staff, gazing out across the sprawl of Skavenblight. By the gleam of the moons and stars, he could see the taller buildings rising above the fog. He could see the vast morass of the swamps and marshes beyond the city, the paddies of black corn and the rickety barges collecting their sickly harvest. He could see the distant lights of the man-warren called Miragliano and the far-off peaks of the Irrana Mountains.

The sight brought an avaricious gasp from Puskab’s lips. Soon all of it would belong to Clan Pestilens, the marshes, the mountains, the man-warrens, all of it! They would bring the diseased glory of the Horned One to every corner of the earth! Nothing would oppose them this time, not the man-things, not the dwarf-things, not their own perfidious kind! The world would be crushed beneath the Black Plague, razed as it writhed in the decayed majesty of the Horned One!

The man-things of the Empire were only the beginning. Two seats upon the council now belonged to Clan Pestilens. The balance of power had shifted. The plague monks could now counterbalance the double-vote of Seerlord Skrittar all on their own. They would use that strength to draw other clans away from the heresies of the grey seers. And those who would not see the wisdom of embracing truth would suffer.

A new world was coming.

The world of the Black Plague.

Altdorf

Vorhexen, 1111

‘Kill him!’ The oath came snarling from the lips of Duke Konrad, his hand tightening about the grip of Beast Slayer, the sword which, like all the other trappings of rule, Emperor Boris had stripped away from him.

The suggestion was taken up heartily by many of the rebels. A gang of Westerlanders raced out into the hallway, returning with the knotted cord from one of the tapestries, holding their improvised noose aloft with terrible purpose. The formerly defiant Boris Goldgather cringed against the side of the hydraulis, only Baron von Kirchof moving to stand beside him in his moment of peril. The swordless champion’s bravado brought a sneer from Count van Sauckelhof, who simply ordered his men to fetch a second noose.

It was Prince Sigdan who rallied to the Emperor’s defence. Stepping before the enraged rebels, he interposed himself between them and their prey. ‘We can’t do this!’ the prince declared.

‘Kreyssig will be too late to stop us,’ Erich vowed. ‘They’ll execute all of us when they catch us. Regicide won’t make us any less dead.’

Prince Sigdan gave the vengeful knight a look of reproof. ‘This isn’t about him, or about us,’ he said. ‘This is about the Empire. With the Palace in our hands, with the Emperor deposed, we could have played for time, built alliances. We’ve lost that opportunity now. We’ve lost everything.’

‘We still have that pig,’ Mihail Kretzulescu stated. ‘Killing him might not do any good, but it’ll make me feel good on my way to hell.’

Again, Prince Sigdan shook his head and moved to retard the advance of the lynch mob. ‘Killing him won’t do any good, but it will do great harm. The unity of the Empire hangs by a thread and this scheming churl has seen to it that he is that thread. Kill him and you plunge the Empire into anarchy.’ The prince fixed his stern gaze upon Kretzulescu. ‘Tell me, without the Emperor’s promise that Sylvania will be made its own province, what will Count von Drak do?’

Kretzulescu’s cadaverous face coloured as the question drove itself home. Almost embarrassedly he stared at Baron von Klauswitz. When he spoke, he addressed his words to the Stirlander. ‘Without the Emperor’s promise, Count von Drak would seek to seize independence through force of arms,’ the palatine confessed.

‘That’s right!’ Boris shouted. ‘Without me you treacherous jackals will be at each other’s throats! Like starving rats at the bottom of a barrel!’

‘If he abdicated, our stewardship would have legitimacy,’ Prince Sigdan said. ‘The other provinces would hold to the hope that all the favours Boris has promised them will bear fruit. No one will trust regicides.’ He turned and glared hatefully at Boris Goldgather. ‘The varlet’s own crimes make it impossible to kill him. For the good of the Empire, we have to let him live.’

The sombre, horrible statement swept through the minds of the rebels. With a roar of impotent fury, Duke Konrad turned about and drove the Runefang into one of the mirrors on the salon wall, transfixing the reflection of the reviled sovereign. One of the Drakwald archers loosed an arrow at Boris, the missile striking the water organ he was sheltered behind, quivering in the wood as the Emperor ducked against the side of the hydraulis. Before the bowman could nock another arrow, he was subdued by his own comrades. Crying, the archer was dragged from the salon.

Prince Sigdan turned on the ashen-faced Emperor. ‘Your word that these men will go free,’ he said. ‘If anyone is to atone for this revolt, let it be me.’

Emperor Boris rose to his feet, grimacing as his shoulder brushed against the arrow that had so nearly ended his rule. ‘We, Boris I, Protector of the Empire, Defier of the Dark, Emperor Himself and the Son of Emperors, Baron of Kutenholz, Duke of Scheinfeld, Chief Defender of the Faith of Holy Sigmar, do avow that all those who submit to our judgement will be treated with honour and leniency.’ A cruel smile twisted its way onto the Emperor’s face as his eyes bored into those of the prince. ‘With one exception,’ he added.

‘You can’t trust him!’ Baron Thornig growled. ‘I’d sooner hand a knife to a goblin and ask it to shave me!’

Prince Sigdan walked over to the furious Middenlander, setting his hand on the baron’s shoulder. ‘I don’t trust him,’ he said. ‘That is why we must ensure his honesty.’ The prince let his hand drop to the ancient metal of Ghal Maraz, feeling the slumbering power of Sigmar’s hammer crackle beneath his touch. ‘There is no symbol more sacred to the authority of an emperor than Sigmar’s hammer. You will need to take it someplace safe, hide it until you are certain Boris has honoured his word. Take the decree of abdication along with it.’ Sigdan turned back towards the Emperor. ‘You understand the conditions?’