01 - Empire in Chaos (19 page)

She looked at the hammer held in her hands. It glowed with warm light, but it
was nothing more than a spark in the overwhelming darkness swallowing the sky.

Annaliese opened her eyes with a shuddering gasp, and the pain of her wound
crashed in on her. She saw concerned faces crowded around her, but she looked
past them all at a figure standing apart from the others, and she smiled.

“She is delirious,” said a voice.

“I must go,” she said suddenly, struggling to rise. “The darkness is rising
in the north! My place is there! It is His will!”

“Hush,” said a gentle voice, and she felt a cool hand on her forehead. She
sank back into the bed sheets, feeling as though there were heavy weights that
pulled her eyelids down.

“My place is in the north,” she muttered. “The griffon aflame. That is where
I am bound.”

She felt the presence of Sigmar with her then, and warmth flowed
through her.

Annaliese sank into a deep and dreamless sleep, a smile upon her face.

She had a purpose.

The Northlands are in ruin. Ostland is overrun and will fall any day. Its
lands are rife with enemy forces, and they have taken control of the north bank
of the Talabec River. They push into Talabecland, though our defences are
holding there thus far.

I have received little word from Elector Hertwig of the Ostermark, besieged
as he is in Bechafen. If the Ostermark falls, then the Empire is wide open and
vulnerable—the enemy will be able to strike at the rear of the armies
defending the Talabec, overwhelming them for they cannot hold against two
fronts. Once they fall, the enemy will march into the very heart of the Empire,
and will be within striking range of Altdorf itself. I dread the day that such
news is brought to me. I pray to Sigmar that the Ostermark holds.

The plague has claimed great swathes of the Empire, entire towns and villages
fallen beneath its spell. These places are overrun with blood-frenzied
degenerate beings—the enemy is turning our own people against each other with
its sorcery. It is certain now that this sickness has been spread by agents of
Chaos. The Order of the Griffon is vigilant, and is hunting down the
perpetrators—but the damage has already been done.

Word has come from the High King of the dwarfs that the Everpeak itself is
besieged, a disastrous turn of events for we can expect no aid against the
despoilers of the north from our mountainous allies while their own kingdom is
so beset.

A feeling of dread has descended on the populace and our armies, and many of
the electors have succumbed to hopelessness. This cannot be allowed to continue,
for all the Empire has is the resolve of its people.

This is indeed a dark era. I pray that I have the strength to maintain
control.

K.F.

Udo Grunwald had seen many strange and terrifying sights in his years as a
soldier and a witch hunter. He had borne witness to scenes of madness and
bloodshed, had seen foul magick performed that twisted the essence of reality,
and had seen men possessed by daemons. But nothing prepared him for the sight of
the hissing, steaming monstrosity that rolled inexorably forward as it passed
through the arched entrance into the massive stronghold that was the Grimbeard
Station.

“Lady of mercy,” swore Grunwald. Annaliese was equally awed by the beast that
approached.

As they marched through Black Fire Pass en route to Grimbeard, across earth
on which Sigmar himself had walked, he had begun to assess the girl. She seemed
pure enough on first impressions, though he knew that such things were often
carefully feigned masks. These thoughts slipped away as he gaped at the
monstrous machine before them.

Only the elf, who Grunwald had learnt was named Eldanair, seemed unimpressed—he watched the proceedings with a look of distaste on his long, pale face, and
held a section of his cloak over his mouth and nose to block out the acrid
smoke. Though Grunwald knew that Eldanair had no knowledge of the long argument
that had taken place for the dwarfs to even
consider
allowing the elf
within Grimbeard, he was irritated by his reaction to this wonder of the dwarfs.

The trio stood with their backs up against the smooth stone wall as the
steaming behemoth came closer. The platform was a hive of activity, as dwarf
engineers and workers bustled to and fro, but the witch hunter’s eyes were fixed
on the colossal machine as it drew to a halt, steam and smoke billowing from its
iron-encased belly.

Borne upon dozens of steel wheels, guided upon massive metal tracks fixed to
the ground, the steam-powered machine was a riot of deafening noise and motion.
Pistons hissed super-heated steam as they rose and fell, and huge gears and
levers rotated and clicked as they moved. Smoke, black and sooty, spewed from
the four chimney stacks on the top of the ironclad body of the beast. Whistles
blew painful blasts as they vented steam, and bells rang as mechanical hammers
struck them.

The circular front of the mechanical engine was dominated by a metal-bearded
ancestor face taller than a man, the image painstakingly inlaid with
criss-crossing lines of gold and bronze. Each turning of the massive machine’s
wheels was accompanied by a deep rhythmic sound like the breathing of some
ancient forge-god, and dozens of coupling rods hissed and screamed as they rose
and fell.

With a screech of protesting metal, the giant beast slowed, and Grunwald was
enveloped in a cloud of black smoke. He coughed, blinking tears away as ash and
soot assailed his eyes. The laboured breathing of the machine stopped
altogether, replaced by a deep exhalation of venting steam. When the smoke
cleared, he saw that there were soot-covered dwarfs swarming all over the cabin
of the engine, oiling levers and gears and ensuring everything was in correct,
working order.

Huge crane-structures swung above the snaking carriage behind the engine that
was still exhaling steam, and a huge quantity of what looked like coal was
dropped into an open tray. A flexible hose the width of a man’s body was
manoeuvred into position, its metal clamps fixed onto the curving body of the
engine, as water began to pump into the belly of the beast. Steam rose into the
air, and the beast seemed to hiss in contentment as its thirst was quenched.

Grunwald had of course heard of the wonders created by the School of
Engineers in Nuln, but according to Thorrik, the skills of the Empire’s finest
engineers paled in comparison to those of even the lowliest dwarf apprentice.
Seeing this monstrous machine, he could well believe the dwarf’s claim.

There were engines powered by steam and fire within the lands of men—twelve
mighty steam tanks protected by thick sheets of metal and kitted out with
dangerous experimental technologies, steam powered cannons and such—but even
they were no comparison to this behemoth, for it dwarfed them in size. This
titanic creation that was able to journey through the heart of the mountains to
link the dwarf holds was truly immense. It was easily the height of a two-storey
building, and the engine-carriage itself was over fifty yards in length. Hitched
behind this hissing engine were six carriages—it was a long caravan train made
of metal, pulled by a fire-breathing beast of burden of immense power and
strength.

“Behold the wonder of
Grimgrandel
,” said the young apprentice engineer
who had been assigned as the humans’ guide and chaperone, pride in his thickly
accented voice. He was clearly pleased at the open-mouthed astonishment that the
humans were showing.

“I have never seen anything like it,” said Grunwald eventually. The
apprentice snorted.

“And nor would you have,” he said. “There is nothing in the world that
compares to
Grimgrandel
—and certainly not in the lands of men!”

The elf had a dark look of distaste and loathing on his face and he brushed
at the soot on his clothes and long black hair, in a futile effort to remove the
black marks. The dwarfs bustling around the group gave the elf dark looks,
muttering under their breath.

The elf seemed to have adopted an air of superiority and he looked around
with his delicate nose turned up in repugnance to the goings on. He stuck close
to Annaliese, and his eyes flicked around warily towards any who approached too
close to her. A strange girl, he thought, to inspire loyalty in such a disparate
group.

The elf was clearly protective of her, even though he was unable to speak
Reikspiel, and the folk in the Temple of Sigmar had clearly adopted her as their
own—they had showered her with gifts that they could ill afford upon her
departure from the temple. She had blushed and refused many of the gifts as
impractical for travel—but the clothes she now wore were gifts that she had
been grateful to accept. She barely resembled the rural serving girl that she
had been—it was as though she had thrown away her past and reforged her image
after her near-fatal injuries.

She had shorn away her flowing blonde hair and she now wore it at a more
practical shoulder-length. Outfitted from the armoury of the temple itself on
the instruction of the old patriarch, Sigmund, she wore a long dress of
chainmail beneath a heavy robe of red and cream. This armour was heavy, but
provided good protection, while still allowing great freedom of movement, and
the girl was stronger than she looked. Her shoulders and neck were protected by
a high gorget of stiffened leather and thick leather also protected her
forearms. A twin-tailed comet medallion hung around her neck over her chainmail
and robes, and the girl’s smooth-skinned face shone with devotion.

If she was false, then she was a damn fine actor, he would give her that. She
spoke of Sigmar with believable reverence, and though it was clear her knowledge
of the great deeds of the deity were limited, she was eager to learn.

“I am to come with you upon your pilgrimage to the north—to guard over you
and to school you in the ways of our lord Sigmar,” he had lied, watching closely
for any sign of fear or displeasure. She had beamed with joy at his
proclamation.

Still, Grunwald knew that the external veneer that people wore was only that—an image, surface-deep, that could hide foulness within. How many servants of
the Ruinous Powers wore the guise of nobility and servitude to the Emperor? How
many foul witches and mutants paraded themselves within Empire society as devout
adherents to Sigmar’s ways? The enemy within was the most dangerous and cunning
enemy of all and it was the duty of the witch hunters to root out and unveil
these hated foes wherever they were to be found.

“Do not let her know that you suspect her,” the witchfinder general Horscht
had instructed him. “For that would be to alert her to your motive, and she
would only become more careful and conniving in her ways. Be a friend to her—be her guardian and her confidant. But always beware the guiles of the enemy,
and watch for signs of corruption. And once there is valid proof expose her for
what she truly is and enact Sigmar’s vengeance upon her with the full power
vested in you.”

“I will be ever vigilant in my duty,” Grunwald had vowed. In truth he hated
such a duplicitous approach—he had been embraced as a witch hunter due to his
brutal, forthright and direct approach, not for his subtlety. While others of
his order specialised in infiltrating and unearthing covens of dark worship from
the inside, with admirable success, Grunwald had always frowned upon such
practice. Descending on the foe with all the brutal power his position could
muster, to force a confession from the lips of his suspects—that was his
preferred way. And he had been lauded for the success he had already had in his
young career. This task left a sour taste in his mouth.

“Come,” said the dwarf apprentice, ushering the trio towards the steaming
beast. Udo felt distinctly uncomfortable with the idea of travelling over the
mountains hundreds of miles to the north within the belly of this giant metal
serpent. He would have been much more comfortable riding the distance on
horseback, or even walking, but this was certainly the quickest mode of
transport available and Annaliese had been insistent. A vision drove her
onwards, she said—Sigmar wished for her to travel to the north with all haste.
Grunwald found such claims doubtful, he had been a servant of the warrior god
for some years now and had never received a vision. He knew that some in the
order had received such visitations, but they were usually priests of
particularly high standing—not an untrained peasant.

They followed the young apprentice as he marched up the platform that was
raised some ten feet above the ground, passing the hissing steam engine of the
giant machine he had called
Grimgrandel.
Dozens of engineers, many with
long beards that would have been white if they were not blackened with soot,
stood arguing loudly near the cabin of the machine. The group ducked out of the
way of two master engineers stalking towards them. The engineers were engrossed
in heated conversation, and they carried huge spanners upon which were fixed
arrays of steam-powered tools of arcane design. One of them lost the flow of his
diatribe when he caught sight of Eldanair, and he spluttered in outrage, his
face reddening. Swiftly, the apprentice ushered the trio past the revered
engineers, blushing a deep red. He was clearly uncomfortable being a chaperone,
Grunwald realised.

Tons of coal were being dropped into the vast tender behind the lead engine.
Grunwald found himself gaping, and almost bowled an aged dwarf over as he looked
around the frantic activity around the platform. The dwarf huffed and barked an
insult, as the witch hunter was hurried on his way by the shame-faced
apprentice, who apologised profusely to the old dwarf.