‘Tell me all you can about these skaven,’ Kreyssig told the baroness. He glanced out the room’s window, watching the faint glow of dawn shining through the shutters. ‘Then I must arrange a meeting with the new Grand Theogonist. We will need the support of the Sigmarites in the coming battle.’ He favoured the witch with a cold smile. ‘It is never wise to underestimate the ability of faith to motivate men.’
‘In my time of need, my faith faltered.’ The thunder of Auernheimer’s voice was muted to a contrite rumble. The witch-taker’s head was lowered, his eyes staring at the lavishly embroidered rug under his feet. His arms were folded across his breast as he sketched a half-bow towards the man he addressed.
That man leaned back in an enormous chair carved from a single piece of Drakwald timber. His jewelled fingers drummed against the clawed arm rests. When he spoke, Duke Vidor’s voice was anything but low or humble.
‘You worthless peasant scum!’ Vidor roared. He leaned forwards, clenching his fist and shaking it at Auernheimer. ‘I arranged everything for you. I practically gave them to you as a Sigmarsfest present. All you had to do was kill them. You admit they were in your hands!’ Vidor snatched the dagger he wore on his belt and angrily dashed the weapon to the floor. ‘Draw a blade and slash their throats. Nothing elaborate. Just kill them and be done!’
‘Death would not purge the evil,’ Auernheimer said, his voice still subdued. ‘The corruption must be cleansed, burned away by fire. Only that will appease Great Solkan.’
‘Old Night rot Solkan and all heathen gods!’ Vidor raged, rising from his chair. He stalked across the hunting hall, glaring balefully at the witch-taker. He pointed at the stuffed heads of boars and wolves that adorned the walls. ‘Dead!’ he snapped. ‘Dead! Dead! Dead! That was all you had to do. Dead, this scum Kreyssig would no longer be able to defile the Empire. He wouldn’t be able to profane the halls of the Imperial Palace with his peasant’s feet!’ Vidor sneered at Auernheimer. ‘He wouldn’t be able to transgress upon the sacred traditions handed down to us by most holy Sigmar.’
Auernheimer kept his eyes on the floor. ‘I have failed and I shall atone for my mistake.’
‘How?’ Vidor scoffed. ‘It was merest luck that my spies discovered that Kreyssig was meeting with the witch to begin with. Now he will have her hidden someplace we’ll never find her.’ He stared carefully at Auernheimer, a suspicion growing. ‘Don’t think you can attack the Protector without evidence,’ he warned. ‘If there is no evidence linking him to the black arts, you will be denounced as an assassin. The Emperor will have you drawn and quartered — when the Kaiserjaeger tire of torturing you.’
Auernheimer raised his head, turning a pair of cold eyes upon Vidor. ‘I am prepared to die for my god,’ he said. ‘I will not fail Solkan again.’ With a flourish, the witch-taker drew back his hood, exposing a bald head that was a patchwork of grey scars. Slashing across the scars, blood streamed from fresh cuts.
Vidor stared aghast at the fanatic’s display, finally tearing his gaze away. ‘Cover yourself,’ he hissed in a trembling tone before he remembered his noble bearing. Forcing himself to glare back at Auernheimer he added, ‘You are dripping all over my floor.’
The witch-taker replaced his hood. ‘The heretic must burn,’ he stated simply.
Duke Vidor grimaced at the remark. When he had conceived the idea of employing Auernheimer as his cat’s paw, he hadn’t realised the twisted mentality at work inside the man. He had assumed he was simply some charlatan, some opportunistic sadist playing on peasant fears to aggrandise himself. Auernheimer and his rabble had seemed the perfect instrument to destroy Kreyssig, able to act where Vidor dared not. If Kreyssig’s death were laid at Vidor’s door, there would be scandal at the very least. Disgrace and banishment should the Emperor decide to make an example of him.
Now, for the first time, Vidor was realising the mistake he had made. Auernheimer was no charlatan. He was that most dangerous of men — the true believer. His fanatical devotion to Solkan was no pretence, it was horrible, hideous reality. There was no outrage such a man would not commit if he believed it were the will of his god, and he would do so without a moment’s thought of his own life. That the witch-taker had failed once would only make him that much more determined to become a martyr and make amends before his god.
The witch-taker’s death wouldn’t bother Vidor, but if he should murder Kreyssig without the evidence to make even the Emperor incapable of punishing the Protector’s killers…
Vidor sat back in his chair, taking a firm grip on the rests as he spoke in soft tones to the bleeding fanatic. ‘Auernheimer,’ he said. ‘It does no good to kill Kreyssig. We must get the witch too. If we leave her alive, then she will simply bewitch someone else and use them to corrupt the Imperial court.’ He smiled as he watched the witch-taker’s expression fade from one of fatalistic determinacy to uncertainty. ‘We must leave Kreyssig alive for the moment, wait for him to draw her back out. Only when we can get them both can we act.’
Auernheimer looked undecided. ‘What of her daemons? The witch summoned a horde of daemons to rescue her. She may set such monsters loose upon the city if we don’t stop her.’
‘We have to find her first,’ Vidor said, his words slow, patient and patronising. Reasoning with the fanatic was like reasoning with a stubborn child. He didn’t believe a word of Auernheimer’s story about being thwarted by a horde of rat-faced daemons. More likely, Kreyssig’s Kaiserjaeger had burst in while the witch-taker was lingering over his superstitious rituals. Unable to admit that he had fled from mere men, Auernheimer had decided it was a host of daemons that had made him forsake his duty.
‘Leave things to me,’ Duke Vidor said. He reached again to his belt, but this time it was a sack of coins he tossed at Auernheimer’s feet. ‘Take that and find yourself a place to keep out of sight. When the time is right to act, I will send for you.’ He saw the doubt on the witch-taker’s face. ‘My spies found the witch once, they will do so again.’
As he watched Auernheimer walk from the hall, Vidor wondered about his own words. Kreyssig would be doubly careful now, and after his dismissal he had few friends in the Imperial Palace. The only one of any importance was Lord Ratimir, who had retained his position as Minister of Finance.
That a weakling like Ratimir could offer any help, however, was doubtful.
Lord Ratimir cringed against the wall behind his desk, his eyes clenched tight, every muscle in his body trembling in terror. He was like a frightened child, hiding his head under the blankets to blot out some nightmarish bogey in the innocent supposition that if something went unseen then it wasn’t really there.
Ratimir didn’t need to see the thing to know it was still there. He could hear its paws slapping against the floor, the scrape of its tail against the cold stones. He could hear its short, wheezing breaths and the guttural coughs it uttered. He could smell the rank, mangy stink of its fur. He could feel its abhorrent presence tainting the air, turning it to foul slime that dripped against his skin.
‘Rati-man,’ a monstrous, scratchy voice squeaked in debased Reikspiel. The words ended on a note of chittering laughter.
‘Go away!’ Ratimir pleaded. He could hear the thing creeping closer. He tried to blot out the memory of its appearance, of that verminous shape slinking out from the passageway hidden behind the wall. Desperately he tried to wish away those fangs and claws, the wicked inhuman understanding shining from those beady red eyes.
Unseen, the thing crept closer. Ratimir could feel its foetid breath against his neck.
‘Not leave, Rati-man,’ the thing squeaked. ‘Want-need speak-squeak with Rati-man. Can-will help Rati-man,’ the monster promised. ‘Rati-man can-will help,’ the thing added with a threatening growl.
‘No… No…’ Ratimir sobbed. He raised his hands to cover his ears, to block the sound of that verminous voice. He wailed in disgust as furry paws seized his wrists and pulled his hands away.
‘Rati-man listen-learn,’ the skaven growled. ‘Make Rati-man rich-strong!’ A chitter of malevolent humour rippled from the monster’s throat. ‘Or make Rati-man Rati-meat!’