The skaven operating the catapult weren’t so fortunate. Raising both her arms, thrusting her palms in the direction of the strange siege engine, the baroness invoked a spell of devastating potency. The orb being loaded into the catapult shattered as it was being set into the bucket. The rampant energies flashed into a blinding coruscation. Other flashes of light followed the first, one after the other, as steady as footfalls. The detonation of the first sphere had caught the ones behind it, igniting them inside their wooden boxes.
Kreyssig could only marvel at the devastation, the utter decimation of the skaven. With her magic, Baroness von den Linden had broken the back of the skaven assault.
As he was considering what that meant, what the chorus of shouts from the mob might mean, Kreyssig was suddenly seized and pulled from his saddle. He crashed to the ground, landing on his side in a painful sprawl.
He expected to feel the fangs of a ratman at his throat; instead, he saw a man in the hooded habit of a monk looming over him. ‘You brought the witch here!’ his attacker accused. ‘You brought her here to deceive the people with her sorcery! But Solkan is not fooled so easily…’
In those murderous tones, Kreyssig recognised the voice of the witch-taker. Once before the fanatic had tried to kill him. Then he had been thwarted by his own penchant for ritual and the timely intervention of the skaven. This time, Kreyssig knew neither factor would sway the killer’s hand.
Instead, rescue came from the most unexpected source Kreyssig would have imagined. As Auernheimer brought his sword arm up to deliver the killing blow, he was himself struck from behind. The witch-taker crumpled, the back of his skull shattered like an egg. Bits of the Solkanite’s brain dripped down the jewelled haft of Thorgrim. Grand Theogonist Gazulgrund stared down at the man he had just rescued, a strange look in his gaze.
‘You rescued me,’ Kreyssig said, not daring to move while the priest held the mattock over him. The nimbus of divine energy was fading from the Grand Theogonist, but there was still a terrible power in those eyes.
‘It was the will of Sigmar,’ Gazulgrund said. ‘You brought relief to the temple. You saved the house of Sigmar from profanation.’
The priest’s voice was far from grateful. Kreyssig felt his spine tingle when he noticed that Gazulgrund’s awful stare wasn’t directed at him. He was looking past the prostrate Protector. He was looking at the cheering mob surrounding Baroness von den Linden. Listening to those blasphemous chants.
‘I saved you because you are the only one who can do what needs to be done,’ Gazulgrund said. ‘You are the one who can save the people from delusion.’
Kreyssig guessed what the priest expected. His answer was a sneer. ‘She is my ally and my mistress, why would I side against her?’
The Grand Theogonist impiously kicked the corpse of Auernheimer. ‘As long as she lives, you will never be free of such fanatics. The cult of Solkan, the Inquisition of Verena, even the zealots of my own Temple. They will not abide such overt witchery. They will not rest until it — and those tainted by it — have been destroyed.’ He gestured with Thorgrim at the cheering mob. ‘Today the people cheer, but tomorrow they will remember the holy manifestation of Sigmar. A true miracle leaves its mark on a man’s soul. Sorcery, even employed benevolently, leaves only nightmares.’
Gazulgrund’s shoulders sagged, the great weight of Thorgrim causing him to hunch over. Whatever sacred power had briefly manifested within him was draining away. Still there lingered that terrible power in his eyes, in his voice. ‘Choose your side well, Protector. You may either profit by what has happened here today, or become a victim of it.’
Kreyssig watched the priest slowly withdraw towards the temple, his last words echoing through his mind. He turned his head, studying the mob, seeing them cheer and praise Baroness von den Linden. To them, the witch was nothing less than a living saint, a miracle worker. The Temple of Sigmar wouldn’t dare refute such beliefs because to do so would be to admit that sorcery had succeeded where the power of their god had failed.
No, the Sigmarites wouldn’t dare act against her now.
Middenheim
Ulriczeit, 1118
The Ulricsmund had been spared the worst of the skaven assault. The Teutogen Guard and the wolf-priests themselves had proven more than the pillaging verminkin wanted to contend with. With their tyrannical leader rampaging across the Eastgate, the ratmen had simply bypassed the Ulricsmund to find easier prey.
Avoided by the skaven, the district had become a sanctuary for the people of Middenheim. Refugees clustered in the rectories and barracks, filled the gardens and sacred grove. The sanctuary of the great temple itself was packed with ragged groups of humanity, noble and peasant alike. In the face of annihilation, distinctions of blood and breeding had been forgotten. Westerland burghers sat beside Talabecland farmers, Middenland foresters huddled against Drakwald craftsmen, all united in their despair and fear.
That sense of doom had started to lift when messengers arrived describing the rout of the skaven horde in the Eastgate. Dread descended once more when Prince Mandred came marching into the temple, battered and bloodied, looking as though he had clawed his way from his own grave. Behind the grim prince, Grand Master Vitholf and Beck carried the body of Graf Gunthar between them. A sombre procession of dwarfs and men followed after the graf, the banners they carried not held aloft in triumph but lowered in a gesture of mourning.
Among the refugees gathered in the temple were those who had left the Middenpalaz, sent to the safety of the Ulricsmund before Graf Gunthar embarked upon his desperate sally against the skaven. When they saw their liege lying lifeless in the arms of the knights, a great wail of agony rose from the royal retainers and servants.
Only one among the palace refugees had eyes for son rather than father. Lady Mirella stirred from her bench, her heart breaking when she saw the anguish on Mandred’s face, the crippling pain in his every step. She started to rise, to rush to the prince, to offer him what relief it was in her ability to bestow.
‘He will not welcome a friend right now,’ Brother Richter spoke into her ear. Mirella turned towards the Sigmarite, hurt and confusion in her eyes. The priest bowed his head, and then continued in a sympathetic tone. ‘He seeks a miracle. Comes here to beg before his god. Do not intrude upon his sorrow.’ Richter gazed sadly at the sombre procession making its way towards the altar. ‘The last ember of hope must burn itself to ashes.’
Tears were in Mirella’s eyes. ‘Why?’ she asked Richter.
The priest’s gaze became distant, his voice a mere whisper. ‘Because it is on the anvil of pain that the gods forge heroes.’
Mandred was only dimly aware of the multitude crammed into the temple. The sound of wailing, the sobs of despair and alarm, these reached him as though from a great distance. Even the altar and the Eternal Flame seemed hazy and indistinct. When Ar-Ulric came bustling down from the pulpit whence he had been addressing the assembly, the prince could discern only an old man in wolfskin robes, his mind incapable of reconciling the sight with his memories of Ulric’s high priest.
There was only one thing that was real to the prince. That was the near-lifeless body being carried behind him. In his mind, he thought he could hear the beating of the graf’s heart, a dull drum-like rhythm that grew weaker with every breath. His father’s fate was all that mattered to him now. Not Middenheim, not the people, not even the poison rushing through his own veins. Again and again, as he limped through the sanctuary, he begged the gods to take him and spare his father.