‘First, I must know how much longer I must attend these treatments,’ Kreyssig said. ‘Vidor’s next spy may prove more capable than his last one. I can’t have him using my connection with you to foment unrest among the rabble.’ A caustic laugh hissed through his teeth. ‘I’ll have to redirect the hopes of the peasants. Channel their superstitious fears away from the witch-takers and to a more respectable institution.’
The baroness reached out, stroking her hand along Kreyssig’s cheek. ‘And how will you accomplish such a feat?’
‘The Temple of Sigmar has been leaderless since the death of Grand Theogonist Thorgrad,’ Kreyssig stated. ‘The Sigmarite hierarchs have dallied over electing a replacement, citing the confusion wrought by the plague and the unrest among the southern provinces. That lack of leadership has fostered doubt in the hearts of their congregations, made their belief stray in strange places. A new Grand Theogonist could set things right, restore confidence in the Temple.’
‘Who will this new leader be?’ the witch purred, raking her fingers through Kreyssig’s hair.
‘Someone useful to me,’ he said. ‘Someone I can mould and control. Someone obligated to me.
‘Someone who will bow to the Protector of the Empire even before his own god.’
Slime glistened in the rushlight, dripping down from the subterranean walls. In the streets above the swelter of summer gripped Altdorf, but here there was only dank, clammy cold. Hacked from the limestone beneath the foundations of the Courts of Justice, there were many sub-levels and annexes to the dungeons of Altdorf, but none so infamous as those black vaults spoken of in hushed whispers as the Catacombs.
The Catacombs were the preserve of Kreyssig’s Kaiserjaeger, a private hell of their own creation. Torture theatres, execution chambers, isolation cells and dark oubliettes, interrogation rooms and mortuaries, the Catacombs piled horror upon horror. Even those who were released back into the world above never really escaped these crypts of terror. Within them there would always be the memory of this place, a black cloud to smother every happy moment they had ever known.
Moans and screams echoed through the black tunnels, a chorus of torment that was never silent. Since the attempt to usurp Emperor Boris, there had been no dearth of victims for the Kaiserjaeger to drag down into these depths. One and all were traitors, either by fact or by confession. Kreyssig’s men never failed to extract a confession when it was needed.
The commander emerged into the infernal glow of his private torture chamber, the room which he called the Dragon’s Hole. Its main feature was a great bronze dragonhead, its jaws agape, little iron rings dangling from its horns. The statue’s jaws were a cunningly designed oven, the iron rings clever shackles of exacting craftsmanship. A priest of Ranald couldn’t slip through those shackles. Kreyssig knew because he’d tested it several times.
Today, however, it was the servant of a different god who had attracted Kreyssig’s attention. Lector Stefan Schoppe was one of the scions of the Sigmarite faith in the Reikland, a man respected by his peers, almost deified by his congregation in the diocese of Helmgart. He was a cleric venerated by the faithful throughout the Empire, a priest above reproach. Exactly the sort of man to suit Kreyssig’s needs.
Kreyssig turned away from the dragonhead and the liveried torturers raking the smouldering coals in its oven. He cast an appraising gaze at the assortment of hooks and tongs, chisels and mallets displayed on the oak worktable which rested against one wall. Almost absently, he lifted one of the tongs, a vicious thing of spiked barbs and serrated edges. For a moment, he toyed with the mechanism, opening the jaws.
‘This looks uncomfortable,’ he said, setting the instrument down. He turned and, for the first time since entering the room, looked at his prisoner. ‘Do you not think so, your eminence?’
Lector Stefan was shackled hand and foot to the wall, an iron collar about his neck. Dirt and blood stained his priestly robes, the legacy of his abduction from Helmgart. The cleric’s eyes were wide with fear, roving between the torture instruments on the table and the bronze dragonhead.
‘You have been implicated in the plot against His Imperial Majesty,’ Kreyssig stated, glancing at the little desk set in one corner of the chamber. The wizened clerk sitting behind the table produced a scroll and began reading the indictment.
‘Lies! All lies!’ Lector Stefan shouted.
Kreyssig grinned at him, slowly crossing the room until he was only a few feet from his captive. ‘I know,’ he confessed in a whisper. ‘Down here, though, people will say what they are told to say. Even if it is sacrilege.’
Fresh horror gripped the priest. That fragile hope that his arrest had been a mistake deserted him in an agonised groan. Kreyssig feigned surprise at Lector Stefan’s reaction.
‘Be at ease, your eminence,’ he said. ‘These… barbarities aren’t for you.’ Kreyssig pointed to the table and the dragonhead. ‘What is the sense in torturing a priest? If they are truly sincere in their belief, then they would rather die than betray that belief.’
Kreyssig brought his hands crashing together in a loud clap that echoed through the chamber. In response, a pair of burly Kaiserjaeger came marching into the room. Between them they half dragged, half carried a sobbing shape dressed in a sapphire gown. Lector Stefan recognised that gown and the long blonde hair that fell about the woman’s face.
‘Gudrun!’ the priest shouted in a horrified wail.
‘I thought you might appreciate a familiar face,’ Kreyssig said. ‘When my men removed you from Helmgart, I arranged to bring your daughter as well.’ Snapping his fingers, Kreyssig motioned the Kaiserjaeger to take the woman to the bronze dragonhead.
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Lector Stefan cried. ‘Whatever you think I have done, she is innocent. Touch her and you will bear the curse of our lord Sigmar!’
Kreyssig scowled at the bound priest. ‘His Imperial Majesty once told me that the gods have only as much power over us as we permit them to have.’ He looked at the grim stone walls around him. ‘I have heard many prayers uttered in this room. None of them did any good.’
Lector Stefan watched in mounting agony as the Kaiserjaeger shackled Gudrun to the horns of the dragon. An inarticulate moan escaped the gagged woman as she recoiled from the heat of the coals. ‘Curse your black soul! Let my daughter go!’
‘That,’ Kreyssig hissed, ‘is entirely the wrong attitude.’ Snapping his fingers again, he set the two Kaiserjaeger turning the wheels mounted at the base of the dragonhead. In response, the horns began to tilt, pulling the captive down towards the heated surface of the bronze head.
‘Stop this, Kreyssig!’ Lector Stefan thrashed in his chains. ‘Mercy of Sigmar! Don’t do this thing!’
‘I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to bring you here,’ Kreyssig said. ‘Far too much to stop now. At its highest degree, torture is an art unto itself. Did you know that, your eminence?’
‘Whatever you want! Whatever lies you want me to confess to! Just stop this!’ the priest pleaded.
‘Later, your eminence,’ Kreyssig told him. ‘There will be time enough to explain what I want from you later. For now, just enjoy the show.’
The ghastly demonstration continued for hours. Throughout the ordeal, Kreyssig was deaf to Lector Stefan’s desperate entreaties. Even the reason for inflicting this horror wasn’t explained. Between cries for mercy, appeals to Kreyssig’s humanity, anguished offers to be tortured in his daughter’s place, the priest called upon his god. If any prayer reached Sigmar’s ears, no miracle manifested to spare the priest.
Kreyssig smiled at the sobbing Lector Stefan, listening to the agony of a shattered heart and a broken faith. Again he snapped his fingers. One of the torturers crouched beside the mutilated body, lifting the head by its blood-spattered hair.
Lector Stefan gasped in incredulous wonder. For the first time he gazed upon the countenance of Kreyssig’s victim and it wasn’t the face of his daughter! The build, the hair, even the gown had been similar enough to deceive him.