It was Brother Richter who was the first to find his voice, the first to cry out in recognition of the miracle they had all witnessed. ‘Hail the Wolf of Sigmar!’ the priest shouted, his words booming like thunder within the crowded temple. The cry was taken up by the multitude, shouted with the passion of a delivered people towards their saviour.
Only Mirella was silent. She alone looked beyond the miracle, looked beyond the triumphant saviour. She looked at the man himself, the man who didn’t hear the cheering voices, the man who didn’t look at the jubilant throng.
Mandred stared down at his father’s corpse sprawled before the altar. As he gazed into Graf Gunthar’s cold eyes, he felt a bitterness boil up inside of him. Why had the gods refused his prayer? Why him and not his father?
The answer seemed to shine in his father’s dead gaze, in the beauteous peace that had settled upon his face.
The son’s prayer had been rejected.
The father’s had not.
Mandred looked up as he found Beck approaching him. The knight bowed and offered him Legbiter once more. Solemnly, the prince took up his sword, the sword which was now his right to bear as Graf of Middenheim. Holding the Runefang aloft, he faced the cheering crowd and this time he heard their adoration.
‘Hail the Wolf of Sigmar!’
Epilogue
Altdorf
Jahrdrung, 1116
Months after news of Boris Goldgather’s death reached the Imperial capital, a festive quality lingered in the streets. The gigantic statue of the dead Emperor, a dwarf-crafted colossus that dominated the Konigplatz and which had been funded by a special bread tax, had been pulled down and demolished by the citizenry, the rubble carted off and dumped into the Reik. For weeks, jubilant processions had marched through the streets of Altdorf burning dung effigies of Boris. Even now, ribald and scathing ballads about the last of the Hohenbachs were favourites in the city’s taverns.
Adolf Kreyssig, Protector of the Empire, had deemed it politic to leave the peasants to their celebrations. His position was a precarious one. As a man of humble birth, he had no birthright to the power now at his command. It was only through the indulgence of the late Emperor that he enjoyed his position as steward of the Imperial throne. At the moment, the good people of Altdorf were happy to overlook that fact. Kreyssig had led them in the defence of their homes, had saved the city from conquest by the abominable Underfolk. To the commoners, he was a saviour.
Better than any noble, Kreyssig knew how fickle the mood of peasants could be. Today’s hero became tomorrow’s tyrant. Without the support of the Emperor there was no legitimacy behind his rule, only the clamour of the mob kept the Reikland nobility from casting him from the palace. He knew that the nobles would do their utmost to sow discontent among their peasants. Once the populace turned on him, it would all be over.
Kreyssig stalked through the cold halls of the Imperial Palace. Many of the paintings and tapestries had been stripped away, sold off to rebuild the depleted Imperial coffers. Diamond goblets, emerald chairs, an entire armoire made of polished amber, thirty-seven matching sapphire brooches, a cloak of gold leaf over leopard skin, a tub fashioned from pearl — the list of Boris’s extravagances was as extensive as any dragon’s hoard. Kreyssig knew he hadn’t been able to sell the Emperor’s luxuries for even a quarter of their worth, but at the moment bread and beer were far more essential than gold and silver.
‘You needn’t fret over the mood of the people,’ Baroness von den Linden scolded her paramour as she joined him along one of the deserted galleries. The witch had adopted a lavish gown of imperial purple, a colour reserved only for an empress or an emperor’s consort. Apart from the scandalous impropriety, Kreyssig was worried about the subtle implication, the implied threat to the nobles. If the baroness wore purple, then maybe the nobles would think he was sizing himself for a crown. At the moment, he didn’t need the Vons thinking about such things.
‘Let them think what they like,’ the witch laughed, resting her hand in the crook of Kreyssig’s arm. ‘The peasants are behind you and they have greater numbers than all the nobles. The blinders are off now and men like Duke Vidor will find it difficult to put them back on again. The commoners have been awakened.’
Kreyssig frowned at his companion. ‘Easy for you to say. They adore you as some divine instrument of Sigmar Himself. Even the Grand Theogonist is afraid of you.’ He turned away from the mural he had been inspecting, a fifth-century piece depicting the Battle of Black Fire Pass. Once it might have been a priceless heirloom, but Emperor Boris had contracted vandals to alter the work so that Sigmar’s face bore a closer resemblance to his own. Many of the paintings in the palace had suffered such destruction.
‘Stefan isn’t fooled,’ Kreyssig continued as he walked with the baroness. ‘He knows your powers owe nothing to his god. He knows there is witchcraft behind you.’
The baroness smiled. ‘He may know much, but what can he prove? Can he make the people believe?’ She laughed, a bitter spiteful note. ‘Would he dare? If he exposes me, if he denounces me, what will that mean for his precious Temple? How will the peasants react if they know their homes were saved not by Holy Sigmar but by a heretical witch?’
Kreyssig led them down one of the arcades overlooking the extensive gardens, scowling at the great glass windows. Another vestige of Boris Goldgather’s extravagance, and another that wasn’t so easily traded to provide the essentials the city so badly needed. ‘After the battle with the ratmen, the Sigmarites are more influential than ever before. They have resources beyond anything the other temples can match. The bread they distribute to their faithful has won them even more converts than your miracle in the plaza.’
The baroness stopped and glared into Kreyssig’s face. ‘And where have they acquired such resources?’ she demanded. A faint glow crept into her eyes and a chill slithered into the air as she continued to hold her companion close. ‘What have you been doing with the money Boris’s hoard has brought you?’
‘I need allies,’ Kreyssig answered readily. He knew the witch could pluck the thoughts from his mind. There was no need to hide this from her. Not when there were other things in far greater need of secrecy. ‘The Temple of Sigmar is the strongest in Altdorf. With them behind me, the nobles don’t dare move against me. I provide them with the gold they need to buy bread, they feed all those who will bend the knee and swear upon the hammer.’
‘You don’t need them,’ the witch declared. ‘The people worship me and the Sigmarites don’t dare do anything about it! I am the only ally you need.’ Her tone softened, her expression lightened into a coy smile. ‘Together, Adolf, we can rule the Empire. We can gather up all the pieces and make it greater than before. You and I, Emperor and Empress.’
Kreyssig walked on in silence for a moment, his eyes staring down the long corridor. ‘That is a bold ambition,’ he said.
‘Tell me it is one that you haven’t harboured deep down inside,’ the baroness challenged him. ‘A lowly peasant rising to become greater than them all.’
‘You’ve been peering into my mind again,’ Kreyssig snarled. He quickened his pace, marching down the arcade. Baroness von den Linden matched his angered step, her scandalous gown rustling about her velvet slippers.
‘It can all be ours,’ she told him. ‘No one will stand in our way. Not Vidor, not Gazulgrund. None of them.’
Kreyssig stopped, resting his hand against a golden door set into the inner wall. Another example of Boris’s excessive luxury. ‘You make it sound appealing.’
Baroness von den Linden smirked and shook her head. ‘As though you weren’t already thinking such things. That is why I took you in, healed your wounds. I saw the dreams in your heart.’