The Ulrican faith had been the bedrock of the Empire. Sigmar had worshipped Ulric, had used the god of war to build his Empire and drive the enemies of man beyond its borders. Yet that had been long ago. Civilisation had grown from the barbarism of those days. Sigmar had ascended to take a place among the gods, and through his wisdom he had bestowed upon mankind a better way than the violent path of Ulric.
Brother Richter was sensitive to the nature of his thoughts. His personal misgivings about Ulric would certainly be considered blasphemous by the wolf-priests, just as their own misgivings about Sigmar’s divinity would be anathema to himself. It was, he supposed, a doctrinal impasse that could never be bridged.
Having no desire to intrude upon the Ulricans in their own temple, Brother Richter lingered at the entrance to the sanctuary while Prince Mandred, Lady Mirella and the knight Beck walked towards the altar, a great slab of alabaster that resembled a block of arctic ice. Richter could hear their footfalls echoing down from the vaulted ceiling. Dwarfcraft, that was the only explanation for such incredible architecture. The ceiling was over a hundred feet above the floor, and designed in such a fashion as to magnify and project the sounds coming from the fore of the temple. A speaker standing in the pulpit might send his slightest whisper rebounding to every corner of the sanctuary.
The Sigmarite didn’t contemplate the ceiling for long. Almost against his will, he felt his eyes drawn to the area beyond the altar, the spot of bare stone which was, in truth, the heart of both the temple and the city of Middenheim. Richter was uncomfortable gazing at it, feeling as though its very existence was a challenge to his own beliefs.
The cause of his discomfort was a great pillar of flame, a cold, white fire that blazed from the bare rock. It was one of the divine proofs the Ulricans espoused as evidence of their god’s dominance. The fire was called the Sacred Flame and was said to have been started by a spark from Ulric’s axe when the god cleaved the top from the Fauschlag and left the plateau upon which Middenheim was built. The fire had burned for thousands of years, without any visible source. It was claimed that so long as it burned, Ulric would protect Middenheim. The most aggressive of the wolf-priests challenged the clerics of other gods to present such evidence of their own deity’s presence.
‘The pure of heart may step within the Sacred Flame and suffer no hurt,’ a quiet voice spoke almost in Brother Richter’s ear. The Sigmarite gave a start, turning to find Ar-Ulric standing at his elbow. There was a curious, almost mischievous twinkle in his eye. ‘Would you care to test your virtue, brother? Or do you hold too many secrets to tempt the fire?’
Brother Richter smiled uneasily. ‘Only a proud man believes himself virtuous,’ he said. ‘And pride is the handmaiden of the Ruinous Powers.’ Boldly, he met the high priest’s gaze. ‘Have you made the test yourself, holiness?’
Ar-Ulric laughed and stroked his beard. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Like you, I believe testing a god is the best way to show that you are unworthy of him.’ His smile again became cunning. ‘I would be interested to discuss questions of dogma with you some time.’
‘I fear I am unworthy of such consideration,’ Brother Richter answered with a bow. ‘As a simple friar, how could I fairly debate with the High Priest of Ulric?’
‘And if you were Arch-Lector Wolfgang Hartwich?’ Ar-Ulric asked. ‘Might you debate me then?’ He raised his hand to silence whatever protest was on the Sigmarite’s lips. ‘I may be old, but my memory is keen as a razor. Better than your own, it seems. You forget that we met when that monster Boris was elected Emperor.’ He chuckled again as he added, ‘I was one of those who didn’t condone his ascension.’
Hartwich felt the barb as though it were a dagger thrust. It was true, the Temple of Sigmar had voted in favour of Boris Hohenbach. Another of the many crimes inflicted upon the Temple’s dignity by the late Grand Theogonist. In his own way, he’d done his best to atone for such ecclesiastical misdeeds.
‘Remember my invitation,’ Ar-Ulric said, proceeding down the central nave towards the altar and the Sacred Flame. ‘I stand ready to receive Brother Richter or Arch-Lector Hartwich whenever they might call upon me. And there’s no need for worry. I don’t have any friends in Altdorf interested in hearing of your miraculous resurrection.’
The high priest laughed again. ‘Now that should be a most illuminating topic for discussion, don’t you think?’
The atmosphere within the cavern was stifling, rife with the stink of thousands of furry bodies, hot with the breath of swarming skaven. The might of Clan Rictus, most powerful of the warrior clans, was gathering faster than new burrows could be excavated to contain them. The excess had started to spill over into the dwarf mines, threatening to expose the magnitude of the skaven presence.
Upon a throne crafted from the pelts of vanquished rivals, Grey Lord Vecteek, self-appointed High Tyrant of Skavendom, watched the multitude sweep past his perch. These were his chattel, his slaves. The greatest army in the whole Under-Empire, the hordes of Clan Rictus! Until now, he had been content to conserve the power of his clan, to allow others on the Council to weaken the man-things, to carve their petty victories from the carcass of the man-thing Empire.
The time for such intrigues was over. Now Clan Rictus would bare its fangs, show its despised rivals the only measure that mattered: power! Raw, merciless, brutal power! The other Lords of Decay would learn their place — laprats to their master, Vecteek the Vanquisher! Vecteek the Victorious!
The black-furred skaven scowled down from the rocky outcropping, drumming his claws against the spiked breastplate he wore. How many spies were down there, he wondered? How many ears had the other Grey Lords turned against him?
‘Dread tyrant, Plague Lord Puskab Foulfur kneel-bow before you.’
Warmonger Vecteek turned about in his throne, directing his scowl at the bloated apparition that genuflected before him. His nose wrinkled in revulsion at the necrotic stink wafting from the plague priest’s foul robes and diseased antlers. He resisted the temptation to have his Verminguard butcher the filth out of hand. Clan Pestilens still had a role in his plans and killing one of their Grey Lords was a good way to incite the whole of the clan against him. Far better to bide his time until they no longer had any value.
‘Speak-squeak,’ Vecteek demanded, lashing his tail against the rock. ‘When will man-nest fall to Black Plague?’
‘Soon-soon,’ Puskab promised. The plague priest had earned his place on the Council by creating the Black Plague, after the small detail of defeating a disgraced Grey Lord in ritual combat. There was no one else in the Under-Empire more familiar with the disease and its spread. Still, Vecteek was growing tired of the plaguelord’s assurances. For thirty food-cycles, the skaven had been sneaking into Middenheim, trying to spread the plague without any noticeable results. ‘Need-want direct passage to city. Must-must,’ Puskab twitched his ears nervously. ‘Dwarf-things in way,’ he confessed.
Vecteek bristled at the excuse. ‘Kill-kill all dwarf-things!’ he raged, tearing his sword from its sheath as he reared up from his throne.
Puskab’s rheumy eyes glittered in the illumination of a worm-oil lamp. ‘Mighty-wise Vecteek,’ he said. ‘You lose-die many clanrats fighting dwarf-things. Hurt-harm attack on man-things.’
The Warmonger’s fangs peeled back in an expression of savage challenge. ‘Think-think Clan Rictus weak?’
‘No-no!’ Puskab whined, bowing still lower, trying to placate the enraged tyrant. ‘But why waste-use Rictus-rats fighting dwarf-things?’ His tail twitched as he made a suggestion, one he knew would appeal to the paranoid despot. ‘Use-waste Mors-mice!’ he said.
Vecteek settled down in his throne, his sword across his lap. Use Clan Mors to attack the dwarf-things? Clan Mors, the most despised of Rictus’s rivals! He could order Warlord Vrrmik to bring his warriors to the Wolfrock, use them in the wasteful fight with the dwarfs. Meanwhile, the strength of Clan Rictus would be unleashed in its full fury upon the weak, plague-stricken humans. Clan Rictus would claim the victory and Clan Mors would be bled dry by the dwarfs!