The Emperor Karl Franz paused for a moment before the tall gilt-framed mirror. There were attendants fussing in the background, but he paid them no heed. None would dare approach him unless summoned.
The Emperor was dressed in full ceremonial armour. His heavy steel gorget and pauldrons were lined with the purest gold, and his greaves were intricately engraved with passages from the holy scriptures of Sigmar. Chains hung around his neck, and the vambraces of his forearm guards were wound with the finest wire of gromril. A thick and deeply embroidered cloak hung from his shoulder, trimmed with the rarest ermine. His hair had been smoothed with beeswax and a laurel wreath placed on his head. The warhammer Ghal Maraz rested against the thick armour of his leather-studded cuisses. His gauntlets and sabatons were of the softest leather and covered by steel plates. Exquisite rivets tipped with gold sparkled in the morning light, and the jewels studded in his many medallions and badges of office winked and flashed when he moved. Their splendour was only amplified by the magnificence of the chamber around him, which was arrayed in a riot of glass and heavily polished dark wood.
And yet, for all the finery, Karl Franz felt weighed-down, dragged earthwards by the pull of the metal, leather and fabric draped across him. He looked darkly at his reflection. He felt old, tired and angry.
‘I’d prefer a real suit of armour,’ he said to himself. ‘One I could wear on the field. Gold impresses only fools and the simple. But it must be done, this show. Protocol demands it.’
Drawing a resigned breath, he whirled around to face his adjutant.
‘Enough. We must get started. Announce my presence.’
The adjutant bowed, and scurried off. Other attendants raced to their places. They were happy now. Karl Franz knew they hated it when the Emperor deviated from the agreed ritual or routine. The very idea that there might be a man under all the livery, one who lived and breathed just like them, would have been utterly horrifying to them. They preferred to think of him as the regent of a living god, the embodiment of the Empire and its many lands. And that, Karl Franz mused, was probably for the best. If they knew the doubts he had, the toll of the endless burden of power, the constant need to make decision after decision, then they would serve him less well. At all times, he knew he must present his people with the front of the mighty leader, the protector against all foes. When the day came when he was unable to do so any longer, he prayed that his death in battle would be swift, and his successor would be of the right mettle. If the Empire were to stumble, even for a moment, then the malice of its enemies who remorselessly pressed against the borders would surely find the weak point and exploit it. They were already at the gates, hammering away at long-prepared defences, gibbering hordes of madness and hate.
None knew this more than Karl Franz, with his long experience of guiding the greatest realm of men through history for so many long years. Some called him the greatest statesman of the Old World. Others, and he knew who many of them were, called him traitor, incompetent, or even worse. Though he had the Reiksguard around him at all times and warrior priests offered benedictions on his behalf every hour, he was never safe. The Dark Gods, horrors whose names were only spoken by the fallen and the heretic, would sacrifice a thousand of their chosen warriors just to see his realm toppled and his soul rendered forfeit. Only through faith and endurance could they be resisted. The task was never-ending.
He walked slowly and purposefully down the glittering corridor after his bustling adjutant. His heavy armour was nearly soundless as he went. The human and dwarfish artificers had created a suit of such perfection that every joint, every curve of plate metal, was linked to the next without the slightest flaw. Only his sabatons clanked heavily against the hard floor as he strode, echoing down the corridors of the Imperial Palace. Ahead of him, massive doors loomed. The panels were beaten from weighty slabs of bronze and iron, and inlaid into a frame of solid oak a foot thick. Few knew the origin of the panels, or guessed at the ancient lineage of the doors. The metal in them had come, so it was said, from the shields of the chiefs and warlords Sigmar had overthrown to form the first army of the nascent Empire. As he stood before them, Karl Franz bowed his head slightly. From the other side, he could hear the hubbub die down in advance of his entrance. He grasped Ghal Maraz tightly, and whispered a brief prayer to Sigmar. Then he motioned to the attendants behind him to swing the doors open.
‘It is time,’ he growled.
The massive doors rumbled apart as thick ropes were heaved by a team of straining servants hidden in the shadows of the corridor. Without waiting for them to open fully, Karl Franz strode into the chamber beyond. The air was suddenly filled with the sound of clashing and scraping metal as three dozen advisers, councillors, ministers, electors, patriarchs, priests and other assorted potentates thrust back their seats and rose to attention. Most were wearing armour of a similar ostentation and impracticality as Karl Franz’s own. Some of the electors wore helmets, ruffs and plumes of truly ridiculous dimensions. As the occupants of the chamber stirred into a position of appropriate deference, the cacophony of their movements rose into the high vaulted ceiling where an elaborate wooden roof was studded with shields commemorating the great battles of the Empire. Without looking up, Karl Franz passed underneath them. He knew them all.
All eyes were fixed on him as he walked towards his appointed seat. With rat-like efficiency, attendants pulled a bronze-inlaid throne back from the vast round table of the council chamber and took up his cloak behind him ready to arrange it over his shoulder in the proper fashion. Concealing his distaste for such theatrics, Karl Franz placed Ghal Maraz on the polished wooden surface of the table with an echoing clang, looked around the room once, and sat down. With a flurry of activity, the rest of the chamber did likewise, and the servants retreated from the room, closing the great bronze doors behind them.
With all its usual pomp and fanfare, the session of the Imperial Council had begun.
‘My lords,’ said Karl Franz, his voice low and resonant in the echoing space. ‘Thank you for answering the summons to attend this council. I know you’re all busy with your own preparations for war, and I do not call you to the palace lightly. But there are urgent matters to attend to. I will not detain you with pleasantries. Marshal Helborg, you will give us your assessment of the latest situation.’
A figure at the far end of the table rose to his feet. All the assembled knew who he was: Kurt Helborg, Grand Marshal of the Knights of the Reiksguard and one of the most formidable warriors in the entire Empire. His ceremonial armour could not entirely disguise the heavy bandaging around his shield arm and neck. He had been in action fighting against a huge Chaos army in the east until just a few days previously, and still bore the marks of the conflict. Despite his wounds, he bore his massive carriage proudly and without a hint of visible discomfort.
‘My liege,’ Helborg said, in a voice that sounded like it had been dredged from the gravel of the Reik itself, ‘I am too old and artless to try and paint a cheerful picture of what awaits us. There is little hope in the east. Ostland and Ostermark are overrun. The armies of marauders I was sent to halt have been driven back, but with grievous loss. Our defensive lines along the Talabec still hold firm, but they have not yet been tested by the full force of the enemy. The plague which has ravaged the lands for this last year makes every act of campaign difficult and doubtful. Whenever we move to strike, we are forced to deal with some plague-inspired insurrection elsewhere. The men under my command are exhausted and near revolt. There’s no point in pretending otherwise. I expect it’s the same in armies under the command of others. We know the core of the Chaos host has yet to enter the heartlands of the Empire. When they come, I can’t tell what will occur. You may count on us to fight until our last breath, but whether that will be enough… Well, time and Sigmar will tell.’
A snort of derision came from the heavily hunched figure of Volkmar, the Grand Theogonist. He was the head of the mighty Church of Sigmar, and the scars across his body bore witness to his long service. He leaned forward, his bald head shining as if polished, and pointed an accusing finger at the Grand Marshal.
‘How can a man say such things in the presence of the Emperor and live?’ he hissed. ‘Where there is weakness, it must be rooted out! Your love of your men and tolerance of their softness is well-known. The unwilling must be culled to breed resolve in the rest. I cannot stomach this weak-minded, craven assessment. Take a score of my Templars into your ranks, and then your men would truly stand until their last breath!’
The old man spat the words out. They were born of long bitterness and implacable resolve in the face of the endless tides of Chaos. A few around the table looked at Volkmar with approval. Some looked on with pity. Helborg himself remained calm and stony-faced.
‘Your Templars would thin out my ranks even more,’ the Grand Marshal said in a low voice. ‘Leave your butchers here in Altdorf chasing old women, and we’ll defend the border with proper men of the Empire.’
Volkmar’s eyes flashed, and he made to respond. Before he could speak, Karl Franz smashed his armoured fist heavily on the table.
‘Enough!’ he said irritably. ‘I did not ask the Grand Marshal to provoke a debate on morale. These facts are incontestable. Ostland is lost to us, the plague shows no signs of lessening, our people are losing faith. The tide is against us, and we know worse is to come. The question remaining is simple: what is to be done?’
A third figure leaned forward. His face was entirely covered in a gold mask with an oddly beatific expression. He was Balthasar Gelt, the Supreme Patriarch of the Colleges of Magic. No one knew what dreadful injuries had compelled him to encase himself in gold, but he was never seen without his all-embracing shell of metal.
‘It seems almost too obvious to remark on, but I will do so nonetheless,’ the wizard said. His voice was a thin, pale sound. ‘The plague and the invasion are the work of one mind, one intelligence. This is no ordinary incursion of marauders, but a coordinated attack reaching across the whole of our northern border. Those of us steeped in scholarship of the Ruinous Powers know who is behind it. The only countervailing force against this foe is magic. Steel will not suffice. Grand Marshal Helborg has told us his men are near mutiny. No wonder – the sights seen by our valiant soldiers should not be witnessed by any mortal man. If the work of the colleges were not so insufferably restricted by Imperial decree and mandate, then…’
‘Then your band of sorcerers and tinkers would run amok making things twice as bad as they already are,’ sneered a new voice.
Hans Behrer, one of the generals from Ostland who had fought the long rearguard action across the sodden fields of the eastern Empire, stared at the wizard with undisguised contempt.
‘I see you disdain the loyal service of wizards,’ said Gelt, coolly. ‘How original.’
Gelt’s expression was, as ever, impossible to read, though there was no sign of his fabled temper in his even tone of voice. It was almost as if he had expected Behrer’s intervention. Behrer himself, a thick-set, brooding character with bunched shoulders and dark hair, shot him a withering glance.
‘All men of honour shun the ways of the sorcerer,’ he said, using the pejorative term for a practitioner of Chaos rites. ‘When we were standing knee-deep in the ranks of our own dead in Ostermark, the blood of our kinsmen mingling freely with the endless grime of the field, what did we face? Magic. The sky was aflame with it. The only remedy for such unholy perversion is the sword and cannon. Even the mightiest warlock cannot spread his vile spells with his tongue cut out, and a round of iron shot will cut down the most raving of cultists.’
Gelt, once again, remained uncharacteristically unmoved. He placed his gold hands on top of one another, and inclined his expressionless head slightly to one side.
‘An interesting opinion,’ he said. ‘You clearly have little time for our activities. And yet our skills may surprise you. You may not be aware, for example, that the spoor of Chaos is evident to one such as myself, even in its lowliest servants. The stink of dark magic is not easily erased, and the mark of ruination may be evident to a wizard when it is invisible to all others. You should watch yourself, general. If I were you, I would ask why one of your rank has been invited to this gathering, when all about you are your betters. The answer may not be to your liking.’
At the end of the table, Karl Franz watched with a close interest. The tension around the chamber grew as the two men, wizard and soldier, faced each other. Behrer’s face reddened at the accusation, and he rose to his feet, trembling with rage.
‘By Sigmar!’ he shouted, half-reaching for his sheathed sword. ‘If we were not under the Emperor’s peace, I’d…’
‘You’d do what?’ interrupted the Theogonist suddenly, looking with a keen interest in the agitated general. ‘Attack the Supreme Patriarch of the colleges? You’d be dead before your sword left its scabbard. What kind of a man would even suggest such a thing?’
Behrer, his face now crimson with rage, stood uncertainly for a moment, before letting his hand move away from his blade. Gelt remained calm, but his gaze never left the general. Behrer looked around him for a moment, clearly in two minds, before turning to the Emperor at the head of the table.
‘My liege,’ he said, controlling his anger with difficulty. ‘I have been accused of treachery in the heart of your palace. Will you say nothing?’
Karl Franz felt the first prick of sweat on the palms of his hands. This had come earlier than expected. From the corner of his eye, he could see Gelt watching him intently. He rose to his feet slowly, ignoring the looks of consternation from the others around him.
‘You should have listened to the words of the Patriarch, general,’ said Karl Franz, slowly and deliberately. ‘Did you never wonder why a general such as you had been invited here? Or why no others of your rank are present? If you had any wit about you, you would have remained quiet. As it is, your example will come sooner than I had foreseen.’
Behrer’s eyes widened with terror, and he looked about him with a sudden fear. His forehead broke out into a sweat, and he stepped back from his place at the table awkwardly.
‘What can you mean, my lord?’ he stammered, his expression a mix of anger and indecision. ‘I have been informed on? This is madness! Lies! There is someone in your service who wishes me ill!’
At that, Gelt too rose from his seat. The assembled nobles around him shifted uneasily. Some put their hands on their weapons, though none was foolish enough to draw swords without the Emperor’s permission. The Supreme Patriarch threw his cloak back, and gripped his staff with both gold-clad hands.
‘Indeed there is, Behrer. I wish you ill. I wish to see you dead on the floor of this chamber for the traitor you are.’
At that, he swung his staff in a constrained circular motion, and a bolt of blistering energy flew across the chamber towards the steadily retreating figure of Behrer. It was a small summoning for one of Gelt’s skill, but still had the power to knock a man off his feet and tear a hole in his armour. As the ball of coruscating force surged towards the general, he made a desperate move to avoid it, but was too slow. He was hurled against the stone of the far wall, and slumped down the surface, eyes glazed.
‘Get back!’ barked the Emperor savagely, and the electors around the table rose slowly, fixated on the bizarre sight before them. Without waiting for them to collect their senses, Karl Franz strode towards the prone figure of Behrer. The general made no movement. Perhaps he was dead. The Emperor felt a small sliver of doubt enter his mind. Could he have been mistaken? He felt Gelt arrive by his side, and the two men gazed at the twisted body before them.
‘Perhaps we were wrong,’ said the Patriarch simply.
But then, Behrer’s face jerked back into life. His eyes snapped open. His prone limbs started to move, and he clambered arduously to his feet. He began to shake violently, and his mouth lolled open.
‘If I may, my liege,’ said Gelt grimly, raising his staff once more, ‘I’ll dispose of him now. Our suspicions have been…’
But he was cut off by an unearthly howl. Behrer started flailing around madly and launched himself at the portly Gold wizard. Taken by surprise, Gelt was knocked backwards, and his staff skidded across the floor. Karl Franz grasped Ghal Maraz tightly, and stepped forward. Behind him he could hear the sounds of swords being drawn. Armoured figures rushed forward.
Behrer was being transformed. A ball of pulsating energy had begun to coalesce around him. His limbs flailed ever more wildly, and he flung himself back against the wall, panting madly. Suddenly, a cluster of tentacles burst from his chest, spraying blood across the stone. A gurgling scream broke out, but was soon extinguished as Behrer’s head was enveloped by his own neck. His whole body was folding in on itself, being absorbed by some parts and sprouting new and hideous growths in others. The speed of the transformation was terrifying, and soon all manner of spikes, fronds, tongues and even wings were forming and reforming across the tortured surface of what had once been Hans Behrer. The amorphous mass of flesh, bone and sinew reared upwards, growing in size. Strange colours and viscous substances pulsated beneath the rapidly-changing surface of the skin. In the centre of the gelatinous mass, a vast maw was opening up, ringed with vicious-looking teeth. A purple tongue, studded with spikes, flickered out towards the men assembled around it.
Karl Franz watched the transformation impassively. Ghal Maraz felt light in his hands. The runes seemed to shine with a faint, dull light of their own, as they ever did when battle loomed.
‘Abomination!’ Karl Franz hissed, his words laced with cold fury.
Beside him, Gelt clambered to his feet and retrieved his staff. On either side of the Emperor, other councillors stood ready, swords naked. All were warriors, steeped in the long fight against Chaos.
Karl Franz strode forward, swinging the warhammer loosely around him, enjoying the sensation of the weight and heft of the weapon. The creature which had been Behrer saw him approach through a dozen or more shifting, popping eyes, and screamed at him. The breath of the Chaos spawn was foul, laced with death and the stench of dark sorcery. Without hesitation, Karl Franz pulled Ghal Maraz into a wide arc, and slammed the sacred warhammer into the foul amorphous flesh. The creature screamed again, and a host of writhing tentacles, many barbed with what looked like stings or hooks, flew from the centre of its fleshy body. Some wrapped themselves around the Emperor’s arms, some bounced harmlessly off the exquisite plate armour.
Councillors raced into the battle. Helborg hurled himself at the spawn, his sword flashing. Even his voice was drowned by Volkmar, who bellowed a litany of cleansing with all the righteous anger of his calling. Ignoring the others, Karl Franz whirled around, using the weight of his ornate raiment to reinforce the blows of Ghal Maraz. Time and again the warhammer fell, gouging out chunks of sorcerous flesh, smashing the eyes into darkness, and reducing the flabby, shifting mass of twisted bone and sinew into a shrinking puddle of gore and slime. The Emperor moved forwards, brushing off the remaining attacks from the spawn, relishing the resonant power of the hammer in his hands, feeling the combined artistry and rune-magic of the mighty instrument carve through the shimmering aura of dark magic surrounding and nourishing the spawn before him.
The shape was becoming ever more formless, weeping blood and other liquids copiously. The screams had become more like mewls, and the many opening and closing mouths of the monster sagged and tore at themselves. Sensing the end, Helborg and the others withdrew. The honour of the kill belonged to the Emperor.
Karl Franz took a deep breath, and prepared to swing the final stroke. Ghal Maraz continued to resonate harmoniously in his hands, as if absorbing and echoing the powerful magic swirling around the room. But then a final shudder rocked the bleeding and ruined shape before him. The loose sac of skin and horn quivered, and withdrew in on itself rapidly. There was the sound of squelching and crunching, and a new gaping mouth opened over the quavering form. There were no teeth, barbs or stings bursting from this new orifice, but instead a sinuous neck emerged, crowned with what looked like the distorted head of a bird. It was decked in bright blue feathers, and had eyes of deep, vibrant yellow.
With some difficulty, it opened its crooked beak, and a rasping voice emerged. It was somewhat similar to Behrer’s, but horribly warped and distended. Whatever was left of the general’s vocal cords must have been mangled beyond description.
‘Well done, son of Sigmar,’ came a guttural, scraping rasp. ‘I’m glad the little tricks of my Master are of some amusement. Take pleasure in this while you can, for even the slightest of our riddles only serve to augment His mightier purpose. Believe you have won a victory if you will – you will have an eternity of torment to regret your lack of foresight.’
Taking no notice of the squawking monologue, Karl Franz looped the hammer twice around his head, and then slammed it into the grotesque face with all the force he could muster. With a flash of golden light, the spawn reeled from the blow, staggered once more, limply tried to re-form itself, and then sagged against the stone floor, utterly spent. More blows fell, until the quivering substance was reduced to a pile of bloody pulp, gently oozing multi-coloured liquid over the smooth flagstones. The stench was disgusting.
Breathing heavily from the exertion, Karl Franz stood over the crushed spawn. In amidst the gore and fleshy detritus, a few recognisable features of Behrer still lingered. A finger here, a tooth there. Otherwise, nothing remained. A sudden fury began to fill Karl Franz’s spirit. He had known of Behrer’s treachery, had drawn him to the meeting for this very purpose, but still the sacrilege outraged him. Now that vengeance had been achieved, his controlled sense of purpose was replaced with a burning emotion of betrayal.
He turned to face the others, his expression dark and intense.
‘Witness the fate of all who turn to the Ruinous Powers!’ he cried.
All thought of protocol and pageantry had been forgotten. He was quivering with rage, and his eyes blazed with a dark fire.
‘Know this!’ the Emperor said in a low voice. ‘While I bear the weapon of the Heldenhammer, and while there is still strength in my arms, this is the destiny for those who reject the light of holy Sigmar and turn to false prophets. No pity, no remorse! The purging flame is all that awaits the traitor.’
At that, Gelt stepped forward. Something about the way he moved conveyed his disgust, even if his mask remained impassive. He raised his staff high, and golden light blazed forth. When the stream of energy hit the ruined shell of the Chaos spawn, brilliant flame leapt up. It kindled quickly, and soon the leaking, putrid carcass was ablaze. The stench from its immolation was foul. Undeterred, Gelt maintained a steady onslaught. The remains blackened, crisped, and shrank into ashes.
Karl Franz looked on silently. As the spawn dissolved into nothingness, his breathing returned to normal. His fury was replaced by an icy calm.
The remaining council members looked uncertainly between the Emperor and the crumbling skeleton of the Chaos beast. All were men who had seen strange and terrible things on the battlefield, but such an event in the heart of the Imperial Palace was difficult to digest. Gradually, they recovered themselves, and returned silently to their seats. His work done, Gelt took his place once more. Creeping from the shadows, servants shuffled into the chamber to clear away the wreckage. What remained of its body would be disposed of under the watchful eye of the priests of the Imperial household. With some satisfaction, Karl Franz knew that even as the council reconvened, witch hunters would be crashing their way into Behrer’s house. His family would have to be very convincing in their denunciations and protestations of innocence, or their deaths would be long and difficult.
As the energy and anger began to drain from his body, he felt Ghal Maraz become heavy in his hands once more. The weight of his armour returned to his shoulders. He re-took his seat, and placed the warhammer in front of him. It would not be needed for the remainder of the session.
‘My lords,’ Karl Franz said, looking at each councillor in turn. ‘Behrer’s treachery was known to us, and his presence here this morning was no accident. But I did not stage this charade idly. On each prior occasion this council has met, there has been bickering between us. The Church of Sigmar finds fault with the Reiksguard. The Knightly Orders find fault with my corps of engineers. The electors of the southern provinces do not appreciate the needs of those in the north, and everybody mistrusts the colleges. This cannot go on. While we squabble and debate, the land is aflame. Even as I speak to you now, there are brave men of the Empire dying defending their homes. The least they can demand of us, sitting here in the centre of the realm far from danger, is that we understand the threat and work together to confront it. Do not mistake me, my lords. I regret the death of any of my subjects, for every man and woman of the Empire is like a child to me. But any who frustrate my attempt to drive back the hordes which assail us will meet the fate of Behrer. Even in the midst of Altdorf, there is treachery and dissent. It cannot go on.’
His words were met with silence. Every member sat with their face turned towards him, listening intently. Perhaps Behrer had served a purpose after all.
‘I have told you of my plans for my Order of the Griffon,’ continued the Emperor. ‘Many of you have supplied members from your own ranks to join this institution. But the numbers are still too low. You know my intentions: to bring together every member of the Empire into a single body, an incorruptible force of all skills and talents working as one. If we remain divided, then the designs of the Dark Ones are already half-complete. Sigmar has blessed His children with diverse skills. Only by placing them in concert may we realise His purposes fully. We know that the enemy has formed a similar force, which we only know as the Raven Host. Its purposes are hidden from us, but its threat is not. I urge you to act quickly, my lords, and induct more of your best troops into the Order. All are needed. Our divisions must end. Have I your agreement on this?’
The electors and other nobles, some still somewhat shaken from the dramatic effects of Behrer’s pact with the Dark Gods, nodded in turn. Some even looked like they meant it.
Gelt was the only one to speak.
‘The colleges have already supplied many of the best wizards in the Empire as recruits for the Order of the Griffon. I will speak to my colleagues, and ensure that more is done. If the hosts of Chaos can put aside their differences in order to unite against us, then we must do the same.’
The Emperor inclined his head towards the Gold wizard in thanks. Gelt was a slippery fish. Like all the rest of the council, it was only the dire necessity of the situation which curtailed the usual business of politics and intrigue between them. But for the time being at least, he seemed to have made his point.
‘Very well,’ the Emperor said curtly. ‘That is an end to the matter. I shall expect to receive lists of names from you all in due course. But now we must turn our attention once more to the conduct of the war. I wish to have no more disagreements on those best suited to carry out the defence. We must consider the location of the next attack, and be ready for it. We are no longer so far from the front, here in Altdorf. Our resources are meagre. Where should they be deployed?’
Back on to the familiar territory of war planning, the electors and marshals shook off their uncustomary reticence and began to confer in earnest. Plans were introduced, sheets of parchment were pushed across the smooth wood of the table, and logistics and gunnery requirements discussed. Karl Franz sat back and let the discussion take its course for a few moments. His eyes strayed to the high window on his right. At the edge of his vision, a thick black pall of smoke was rising in the narrow courtyard outside. The charred remains of the spawn were being burned further. For a short time, he found himself drawn to the thin, twisting line of smoke. It had once been a man, one who had fought for him. How many others were waiting to turn, like Behrer, to darkness?
The Emperor shook his head. There was no use in speculating. Turning his attention back to the debate before him, he resumed the wearisome business of listening to plans and counter-plans. In the end, he knew, there was only faith and vigilance. And given the scale of the task the Empire was facing, they would need plenty of both.
